The Stars Are Black And Cold
by Jessiclar
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock Holmes turns back up at Baker Street after faking his death. John is furious. After grieving for ages he has come to realise he has feelings for the detective but when will the detective realise he has mutual 'theories? Rated T for future chapters
1. Chapter 1

My friend Rayne and I are writing writing this together. We invite you to read it, favourite it if you like and maybe even review. Thank you for even clicking on our "little" story.

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><p>"Sherlock! You complete arse!"<p>

"John, you're being irrational."

"Irrational! Irrational? Of course I'm bloody irrational, Sherlock! You faked your own death! What was I meant to do?"

"It was necessary."Sherlock said calmly, almost off handedly. He shot John a look, instantly taking in a breath. Waving his hand, he tried to shoo the subject away. It meant nothing to him. It was just another one of his genius escapes. He thought John of all people would understand. However he was just being annoying.

"Necessary? Sherlock, you must have read my blog," Sherlock tried to reply but John wasn't going to give him the chance. "Don't even bother lying to me, Sherlock Holmes. Just because you are past emotions doesn't mean you can just watch me suffering! How would you feel if I was dead? Oh wait. I'm sorry, silly me. You wouldn't! I'm just another disposable experiment to you. My feelings don't matter." Before Sherlock got any chance to answer, John stormed towards the door to his room and slammed it shut. Sherlock stared blankly at it, unsure of what had just happened. He did however have a sudden feeling of guilt. Picking up his violin, he let the bow touch the strings and played his feelings away.

John sat in his room. His eyes ached with their inability to cry; unlike the time he'd spent alone when he'd thought Sherlock was actually... dead. The word sent shivers down his spine. Dead and Sherlock never mixed, except for when they took up cases about dead things. Usually people, once or twice there were dead animals.

John shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. He ran his hands over his face and let out a shaky breath.

"Sherlock." He sighed. The word hung heavily in the air. John wasn't sure how to feel; he wanted to punch and hug the frustrating man that was Mr Sherlock Holmes.

A soft, mournful violin melody filtered into John's thoughts. Sherlock was playing again. Damn him. Never giving John any time to think, not without that damn violin.

John sighed again. His anger with Sherlock was getting to him. He fell backwards and lay sprawled across his bed.

Sherlock was playing some soothing music. Better than his normal racket. This gave John something to think to. Sherlock infuriated him. How could one man be so annoying and yet so amazing at the same time? Those weeks without Sherlock had been terrible. Thinking his best friend was dead and gone. He had been lonely, treated as the main mourner. Everyday he had written a post on his blog. Not that anybody could see them. Those ones had been private. Everyday he missed Sherlock more and more but now he was alive and acting like everything was okay? He wanted to strangle him. Yell. Something.

Rolling over John felt the soft texture of cotton rub against his cheek. Sherlock's scarf. He had taken that the third day of being in 221B alone. Mrs Hudson had left him alone for one night and he had found himself sneaking into the detective's room. He had spent the night there. He wasn't completely sure why he had. He just knew it had made him feel slightly better. Like he wasn't alone.

Although, being alone was something John rather liked. Except for Sherlock. When Sherlock was around, John mused, he was never alone. He'd run out to get the milk, or to find a crime for Sherlock to solve, and Sherlock would still be waiting for him. It didn't matter about the hour of his departure, or the length of time he was out, Sherlock would wait for him. It was nice.

John smiled, sleepily. All the rowing had made him tired, emotional displays did that to most people. But the tiredness that John felt was bone deep. His being ached with tiredness from... his loss. What loss though? Sherlock was fine. Sherlock was being loud and musical in the flat. So, why did it feel like Sherlock wasn't there this time? Because - was it possible - John expected this to be a dream from his addled mind? Because - could it really be - Sherlock was dead and John was imagining it?

John shook his head and shut his eyes. He let the music wash over him. If this was only a dream, it was the best dream he'd had in a while.

Sherlock quietly opened the door to John's room. He was sprawled out on the bed, clutching hold of Sherlock's scarf. He could tell he had hurt John. Not like he usually did. This was worse. This was different. He couldn't tell why John was exactly angry though. He seriously didn't think that if he did Sherlock wouldn't care, did he? John had seen what Sherlock did to that American who even dared to lay a finger on Mrs Hudson. Surely he concluded Sherlock would do the same for him?

Sherlock shook his head before closing the door and going back to his study. He had to set his affairs in order and fix everything. He'd phone Lestrade in the morning. Right now he'd continued to play his piece. It distracted him from John's stupidity.

The sun dawned as Sherlock's bow danced over the strings of his violin. He was lost in the music, unaware of the time, date or even who and where he was. His mind was running over the many clues that were now worthless, left behind by the ever illusive man that had caused the biggest crime rates of the last 10 years. He'd killed a man by drowning him, but the victim was dry and there were no signs on the body of a struggle, drugs or even the drowning. That was just one of the minor things. Not to forget setting a serial killing cab driver on London and destroying years of Government planning.

Sherlock thought deeply about the whole ordeal of pretending to die... What was John so emotional about? He'd only done it to protect John from this man. From Moriarty. Sherlock never really understood Moriarty. Never understood why Moriarty had wanted him dead. All he knew was the Moriarty ordeal was over and John was safe.

That was all that mattered right? John was safe? Everybody was safe? He couldn't help think that something was missing. Sherlock thought that faking his death would make everything okay but for some reason, it hadn't. He knew John had taken it badly. Hacking into Mycroft's cameras had confirmed that. Wherever he had been hiding he would stay up and watch John sulk around the apartment. Typing on the laptop or staring into space. Sherlock didn't even try to understand human emotions. He barely understood grief. It was such a horrid emotion. One he had eliminated.

At least it was all over now. He'd make it up to John. Take him out or something. A night without any experiments. It was the least he could do. Especially after that eulogy. Sherlock had almost been touched when he had read the post. Which was weird, come to think about it. Sherlock had seen John writing each night and yet he had only ever seen three posts. Normally he would have gone for John's laptop and looked for what John was writing all those nights. However this time, Sherlock would let him keep his privacy. He didn't want to push John too far.

Sherlock's brain ached, as it usually did after trying to comprehend human emotions. He rather envied the animals that only had to listen to their primal instincts, although that wouldn't have allowed Sherlock the freedom to think and to deduce. He put down the violin and wandered to the window. He stood, resting his hands on the windowsill and leaning out the window. The cool air brushed his hair out of his face, scanning the horizon, the cold grey London skies promised rain.

Maybe he could get another case to solve? He should call Lestrade and maybe even, he shuddered , Mummy and Mycroft. Though he had a feeling Mycroft already knew. He had been back in the flat for an entire night and Mycroft wasn't going to stop using those cameras for awhile. In case anything happened. Sherlock had gone by another name for a while. Whilst Moriarty was dead Sherlock was sure his men were still after him, Sherlock Holmes and anyone that knew him was in danger. Even those able to look after themselves, like John, would have to watch their backs. The idea that Moriarty was finally gone was soothing though. He was their biggest threat. Everybody was a mere child compared to James Moriarty.

In the end, Sherlock thought sending a text to Lestrade was better. He didn't like talking on the phone anyway. As he quickly tapped the **"I'm Alive. - SH"** into his phone, Sherlock heard the beeping of a text appearing. As soon as he had sent Lestrade's he noticed it had come from his brother. Good, so he had been watching the flat.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU HAD MUMMY DEVASTATED. YOU NEED TO EXPLAIN THIS TO US SOON! I'M COMING AROUND LATER! - MH**

Sherlock groaned. Maybe it was a bad idea coming home. If Mycroft brought his mother he would never hear the end of it. Least he had time to prepare himself. Even if it was just Mycroft. Trust him not to show brotherly concern though. Mummy comes first. Sherlock snorted, his childhood in a nutshell. Again. The London sky began to pour, he was right. Holding out his arm, he let the rain crash against his skin. It felt good no longer being a phantom. To be back home.

Sherlock pulled his arm in from the window and stuck his head out the gap. The rain fell on his head, wetting his hair and sticking it to his head. He laughed as he saw a very familiar car pull up outside. Sherlock wouldn't be allowed to leave the flat today, not until he'd been spoken to at least.

He pulled his head in and shut the door. Sherlock thought he might as well look, as Mycroft said, barely presentable. He pulled his shirt down and began to unbutton it. His pale, skinny chest was covered in bruises; natural but annoying. He dropped the dirty shirt into his room and began to unbuckle his belt.

After a long, hot shower Sherlock walked out of the bathroom with a slightly damp towel in hand and tousled hair. Another towel was wrapped around his waist. He grinned as her rubbed the towel in his hands over his chest. He wandered through the flat, stopping by John's door. Maybe he'd woken? Sherlock gently opened the door. John stirred in his sleep. His eyes flickered back and forth under his eye lids. Sherlock pulled his head out of the room and turned around to his room. He got dressed and sat in his chair. He was determined to wait for Mycroft...

Five, four, three, two, one.

"Hello, brother dear."

In the door frame stood the, obviously annoyed, figure of Mycroft Holmes. No umbrella this time. Sherlock found it almost amusing. Mycroft glared down at him. He'd only seen his brother his angry once before. Though hog tying his brother, whilst he slept, and stealing his 'booty' isn't exactly the same."Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded in reply. He could sense the anger in his brother's voice. Could read it in his body language. "Mycroft, glad you could co-"

"This isn't a game, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean it to be. I was hiding for my own protection and for John and Mrs Hudson's of course. Probably you too, I gather." Mycroft rubbed his temple slowly with his left hand. It was clear Sherlock didn't understand the grief he had caused.

"Mummy's coming to see you. Today. You best be here." Sherlock groaned and spun in his chair. He wanted to ignore his brother as much as he could.

"Enjoy watching on your camera, Mycroft. You'll hear the explanation to John later, no doubt. Sort everything out will you." Sherlock heard the door slam and the sound of a car pulling away. It wouldn't be long now till John awoke. Then he could start his explanation.

Until then he sat there, contemplating what to do when his mother arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun crept into John's room, outside the rain had stopped and left a crisp day. Opening one eye, John groaned and rolled over. The rest of his face crushing into the scarf he had be holding all night. He was convinced he had been dreaming again. Like all those other nights. He'd see Sherlock and everything would be fine but he then he would wake up and be brought back to the reality of it all. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was dead and he needed to accept that. No faked death. No annoying violin late last night.

As he swung his legs out of bed and forced himself up, the distant smell of lavender drifted into his nostrils. There was only one way in which lavender would be in the flat. Darting up, he pulled on his dressing gown and rushed to the door. Entering the living room, he saw the slim, tall figure sitting up right in the usual chair. He wasn't dreaming. He never smelt lavender in his dreams. It all flooded back to him. Last night was real. It was all real. Sherlock Holmes was alive. "Don't stand there with your mouth hung open, John. It doesn't suit you."

"S-Sorry Sherlock." John stammered. The sheer joy of having Sherlock back made his heart stutter. It was ridiculous, but Sherlock made John happy without even trying. John laughed softly, surprised at his own joy.

"Good. Now sit, please." Sherlock said calmly. His eyes watched John's face flicker between joy and confusion. "I have to explain something."

"Like... where the hell you disappeared to." John said, his eyes clouding over with something like - could it be? - pain. Sherlock sat opposite John and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. If either one wanted, they could lean forwards and touch the other, but they remained slightly distant.

"I know that my actions upset you-"

"Upset me? You let me think you were dead!" John gasped, he shook his head and leaned back into the chair. "It hurt, you know."

"I'm sorry."

"You're Sherlock Holmes, you're not sorry." John said sadly, knowing that he was right. "You just know that to say sorry is the social convention."

"No, John, I really am... I'm sorry."

Closing his eyes, John tried to think over the right words to say. He had planned it for days. Every word, every sentence. He thought he knew everything to say. Like an action plan for going in to war. He needed to say something. He could hear Sherlock breathing. The stare cutting his skin. Racking his brain, he blurted out the first thing that came to his head. "I bet you didn't even pick up any milk."

"John, this isn't the time for jokes." Why milk? Why the hell had John said milk? This was serious. He wanted actions. Just that this was all too much. One day ago Sherlock Holmes was dead and now he was scolding John in the living room.

"I know, I know."

"Look, John, I think I owe you an explanation. A proper one. It's the... least I can do. Especially because of what is happening later." Sherlock couldn't repress the guilt in his voice.

"What's happening later, Sherlock?" John said, sitting up. Raising an eyebrow with wonder.

"My mother is coming." Due to the whispered natured of this, John had to listen carefully. He hadn't met Mrs Holmes yet and this probably wasn't the way he had intended.

"Right, firstly, I'm going to get dressed. Secondly, you're going to tell me everything."

As John got off the chair, after Sherlock had gotten up himself, he walked into the direction of his room. "Oh, John? I did get milk."

After he had gotten dressed, John opened to the fridge and smiled to himself. Yes, Sherlock had got the milk. He poured the milk into the bowl and listened to the snap, crackle and pop of his rice crispies. He laughed to himself as Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

"I had weeks to get use to these, Sherlock. I won't change." John joked, his voice caught a little but he hid it with a spoon of his rice crispies.

"Okay, now you're fed," Sherlock began. "I-"

"Who says I'm fed?" John asked, sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs. "I'm still eating, thank you."

"Can't you hurry up, John?" Sherlock fretted.

"If you're so worried about me meeting your mother, I'll leave." John said, offering the best option he could see for Sherlock.

"No, John!" Sherlock quickly blurted out. Rather too quickly for his liking. "It's just that I need you to know the story before anybody else arrives. It's important, John."

John nodded with a mouth full of rice crispies. He was trying to remain calm but he didn't think he was doing very well. You can't go around moping around for weeks and then just pretend everything is fine. It doesn't work like that. Quickly finishing his bowl, after noticing Sherlock would refuse to move until he did, John sat back down on the sofa. Ready to hear Sherlock's tale.

Sherlock stood up and walked to the window, scanning the streets. Good, he still had time. He turned to John.

"Right John. This is extremely important. I don't want you to miss a word, take notes if you must but listen!" He sat down, his voice quickly became hush and intense. "We both knew that Moriaty was a danger, a danger we couldn't afford to have around. Especially after the night at the pool." He paused and looked John in the eye, "He was coming for me. Me and everyone close to me. I knew it was a matter of time before things caught up with us. As is the way the world works. But, after the American/Mrs Hudson business I could let anyone else get involved. I took cases on alone before you, and I did it again. I couldn't let you get hurt on account of my actions to which only I am fully responsible for." He paused and licked his lips before standing up and beginning to pace. "The night you assumed I died - bad idea, you didn't analyse my body, you assumed it was me- was the night I killed him. I knew though that his loyal henchmen, lackeys, thugs would be after me and you. So, I faked my death. A regrettably necessary action, John." He turned quickly to face John, "I stayed on the homeless network for a while, had wifi from various phones I acquired and made a few new contacts. But, it was only last night that I was able to return home. And I'm sorry, but I could have had it no other way. It would have endangered you and me both."

John watched Sherlock collapse into his chair. Strange that, even when Sherlock was gone, it was still his chair.

"You're right." John said after a while. "We didn't find a need to analyse your body. Considering we saw you fall, St Barts too you in, I identified you and Molly did your autopsy. The police investigation team didn't think they needed to analyse your body."

Sherlock nodded. He'd seen the investigative team ; lazy, useless and annoying. No wonder more men like Lestrade were getting to the top, everyone else on the police force was a complete idiot. The whole country was working on presuming it was him. How naive.

"But you were wrong about one thing," John continued, "you could've told me what you were planning. What you were thinking about doing. I wouldn't have told, or acted, that I knew anything different."

"John," Sherlock said sharply, "you and I know that the actor acts best when he doesn't know he's acting. That's why you didn't know."

John nodded and chewed his bottom lip, he was lost deep in thought and there was little point in rousing him until Mrs Holmes got to the flat.

He wanted to yell at Sherlock. It was all perfectly logical, yes. It was all thought out, yes. Sherlock was right, yes, but over them weeks something inside of John had cracked. He hadn't put his finger on it until now but he realised that losing Sherlock was like losing himself. He had been lost without him. The nightmares had gotten worse, now involving the mangled body of Sherlock. "How long until your mother arrives?"

"Not long. Judging by the situation, child and distance, I'd say we have 10 minutes." John didn't even want to know why he knew those time measurements already. Though he could already gather why. John continued to stare into space, very much like Sherlock would, contemplating every thought rushing through his head. This was different now. Different emotions than before he had believed Sherlock dead and he wanted to figure out how to compose himself but he had the... pleasure of another Holmes relative invading his home.

John imagined Mrs Holmes as a stern woman. From the small ramblings of Sherlock he expected she had been absent a lot during his younger years. He couldn't imagine what she looked like, though he thought she would resemble Sherlock a lot. Some reason he couldn't picture a female Mycroft. It would be too hilarious. John could tell Sherlock was worried. He never mentioned his mother and he had just gotten back from the dead yesterday anyway. He thought it best to sit there is silence, watching Sherlock panic in his own little way.

Dreading the eventual knocking; Sherlock began to pace. His eyes darting quickly backwards and forwards. He couldn't help but worry that John would say something that Mummy would find stupid. His mother was so critical. Always judging everybody she met. It was horrid. Even as a child he didn't do anything right. Mycroft was the golden boy. Sherlock didn't even know why his mother bothered to even come down to London. He doubted she had been devastated or heart broken. In order to be heart broken you first must require a heart. Something Sherlock knew his mother did not possess.

Sherlock was thankful John was remaining silent. The last thing he needed was John complaining again. He knew, however, that as soon as his mother left and he had calmed down that John would start again. He sort of wanted it though. The continuous complaints of John had been absent from his life for awhile and he missed them. They gave him something to fuel. He liked annoying John. So very much.

"John," Sherlock began. Still pacing around the room at an unsteady pace. "When my mother arrives could you, erm, be careful of what you say? You've tolerated my company for many, many months now."

"Sherlock, where are you going with this?"

"Well, Mother isn't exactly the nicest person around."

"With a son so kind hearted as you?" John scoffed. "Wouldn't have guessed."

"She's worse than me, John." Sherlock sighed, collapsing into his usual black chair.

"What?"

"She's worse than me." Sherlock hung his head. This was out of his depth. Not being able to divorce his emotions and all because of his ruddy mother.

"I heard that... But how?" John said, his brow furrowing. He was genuinely confused by the words that Sherlock had just said, not that that was unusual. He watched Sherlock's face, the twitching of his mouth as he spoke.

"It was her who taught Mycroft and I about the uselessness of all emotions." He said. He wasn't calm, not like the usual Sherlock was, that scared John.

"Maybe you should calm down." John heard himself saying, there was no concious thought about saying this. Sherlock's head shot up and, from below his eyebrows, he glowered at John.

"I am calm." Sherlock raised his hand to show the sturdiness of it. This, however, was pointless. A minor shaking action could be detected, causing Sherlock to bring his arms down with force. Staring into space, he did his best to ignore John. Sherlock missed the sound of a Mercedes E-Class Coupé pulling up outside. He didn't even hear the car door slam. The doorbell of 221 brought him to reality. "Three rings."

"Second long each."

"She's here."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for all the subscriptions, reviews and favourites so far. We really appreciate them. Enjoy this chapter.

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><p>Mrs Holmes occupied the black chair usually reserved for Sherlock and he wasn't protesting. From what John could see, Mrs Holmes was a rather tall woman, equal to her son and of similar weight. Her hair, though greying showed signs of once being jet black,was scrapped back into a tight bun. Not a hair was out of place. John suspected her outfit cost twice the amount of his entire wardrobe. He wasn't surprised. He had always suspected Mrs Holmes liked to dress up. "Your cup of tea, Mrs Holmes."<p>

Perfectly manicured hands accepted the cup and saucer from John's hands before he returned to the sofa to be seated next to Sherlock. In the light, John could see the brilliant structure of her cheekbones and the pale skin. It was like looking at Sherlock in female form. It was frightening.

Sitting on the sofa chair, John remained quiet and watched Mrs Holmes and the youngest Holmes son.

"Mycroft says that you faked your own death."

John waited for the typical Sherlock reply of 'Evidently. I'm still alive, aren't I?' but it never came.

"I'm disappointed, Shirley." Mrs Holmes continued. "You had your brother and I worried."

Worried? Wasn't that a little understat-no, it wouldn't have been. She was a Holmes, and like her sons she wouldn't have the emotions to waste on someone else.

"I'm sorry, Mummy." John nearly choked on his tea. Had the great Sherlock Holmes just call his mother 'Mummy'? He was expecting anything but that. He expected the strong front. Like Sherlock has shown Mycroft countless times. "It was unavoidable."

"Shirely, nothing is unavoidable. I have taught you that already." The scorn on Mrs Holmes face was fair greater than any scorn John had ever seen on a Holmes.

"But he was going to actually murder me, Mummy, and then he would have gone after John & Mrs Hudson and he had also given Mycroft so much grief already."John should hear the echoing of her tut. It was completely awkward. He had to be here though. For Sherlock's sake.

"Ah yes. John. I presume that you are the infamous John my son has informed me of. How have you been looking after my little Shirley? He does like to get himself into danger."

From the corner in his eye, John saw Sherlock got a soft pink. If it wasn't for the situation he would have laughed. "I try, Mrs Holmes, but you know how Sherlock is."

"Quite. He didn't tell you about this silly little act of his, did he?" Mrs Holmes shot him a glare that could have looked into the very heart of his soul. He hoped it wouldn't. It would find much more than just fear for Sherlock.

"No, Mrs Holmes, and if he had I would have been completely against it. Trust me."

Mrs Holmes turned to her son, giving him a disappointed stare. "Shirley, you didn't even tell John? Do you realise that when darling Mycroft speaks of you, he tells me about John? Every time. Why does he do this? Because you and John - in Mycroft's words - are joined at the hip. I hope you've apologised to John."

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock said, his eyes on his mother's teacup. "I apologised to John last night... And this morning."

Mrs Holmes turned to John, "I'm sorry for Shirley's behaviour-"

"-oh, but he really did apologise-" John protested, but Mrs Holmes only ignored him and carried on.

"He's rather an insolent child. He never did as he was asked, always trying to out do his brother. It was annoying to say the least, Mycroft was by far the one with more potential. Even Sherlock knew that."

John fought back against saying anything. His last protest went unanswered and it was obvious he was going to be silenced by yet another Holmes. It was pointless doing anything but agree with Mrs Holmes. "Sorry, Mummy."

"Sherlock, Mycroft is going to sort out all of your mess. I had expected better of you. Getting me worried like that. It's not good for Mummy's heart."

"Implying you actually have one." Sherlock grumbled a little too loud. John turned round to look at him in shock. That was the Sherlock he knew but incredibly bad timing.

"Of course, they're weak. Remember that, Sherlock. They are worthless and pointless. I taught you better." Mrs Holmes stood up, collecting her gloves. The two men stood up as she started to walk towards the door. "Don't fall off a building before I get home. Shirley. I can't be bothered with more of your 'emotional' outbursts this year."

And with that she was gone. Sherlock remained staring at his mother's warpath. To John, he looked almost hurt.

Almost.

If only for a second.

By the time John had blinked any evidence of Sherlock's emotions were gone.

Sherlock looked at John.

"Don't say anything, Watson." He said threateningly.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Shirley." John laughed. Sherlock shot him a filthy look. "Hey, I couldn't help it! It's funny!"

"You're so..." Sherlock began. He heard the car start and relished the thought of his mother leaving. "She's gone."

"Yeah," John said, "she left a while ago."

"Her car just left." Sherlock said. "Although, John, did you notice - I don't know if you would've - that she wore her expensive jewellery? She's only ever worn that set once before."

"No, I-"

"No, you didn't notice." Sherlock sighed. "I told you to pay more attention."

John didn't like Mrs Holmes very much. No, not at all. His room mate had just gotten back and was being tolerable for once. Then she bloody comes and ruins it all. Rolling his eyes, John wanted to tell Sherlock he'd have no knowledge of Mrs Holmes's jewellery. He thought it best to leave it. "Sorry, Sherlock."

"Oh but you would be," Sherlock began pacing the room again. He was trying to occupy his mind. Anything to take it off his mother. Off his emotions. He had to divorce them. He had to be what his mother wanted. "Silly little John, always sorry. Always emotional. Laughing at me like everybody else. Not that the last part matters. Trivial. No concern of mine. Everybody is an idiot anyway. No, John, you're too human. It's sickening."

"Sherlock Holmes, sit down." Anger drenched his voice. No longer facing Sherlock he managed to hear the snort and the sound of Sherlock still pacing up and down. "Now!"

Sherlock stared at John momentarily. The anger in his voice was easily detectable and judging by his body language he wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's usual shenanigans. Walking over to his black chair, Sherlock sat down to await John's next comment. He sank into the chair, watching John's back. John slowly turned around to face Sherlock. Sherlock leaned forwards, his elbows balanced on each arm of the chair. He linked his fingers and began to hum.

"You need to calm down." John said slowly.

"I am calm, John." Sherlock said, resting his chin on his fingertips. He continued humming.

"You weren't just then. Stop that."

Sherlock stopped humming. He crossed his legs and scratched his nose with his wrist. He was moving as much as he could, without pacing. His heart rate was raised and his head was aching slightly. He felt nauseous.

"Good." John noted, sitting down in the chair opposite Sherlock's. Silence consumed the room. The two men didn't look at each other directly but instead shot silent glances out of the corner of their eyes.

Finally Sherlock sighed and said, "John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry."

"Okay." John nodded. "I am too."

"I know." Sherlock said, "You've been tapping your knee for five minutes. One tap every two seconds. You were worried."

"Sherlock." John sighed.

"I can't stop deducing, John."

"Yes but for five minutes could you just not vocalise them?" John closed him eyes and began to rub his head. He thought having Sherlock back would be amazing. He dreamt about it. He thought it would fix everything. It didn't. There was still an explainable flutter in his stomach and a pain in his chest. Trust Sherlock to make him feel like this.

In the many weeks that Sherlock had been 'dead' John had come to a realisation. He had spent hours analysing his emotions, the pain in his chest and the tears he cried. At first he had no clue on why he was crying. Yes Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, but it didn't explain the aching he felt. Every time he looked at Sherlock's chair or one of his experiments he would feel tears welling up in his eyes. The air would catch in his lungs, making it impossible to breathe and at night, he would lay there, staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing but Sherlock. It had taken him a while but after some deep consideration, and some hypothetical talks with Mrs Hudson, John came to realise that he had deep feelings for his rude, big headed, sociopath of a room mate.

When Sherlock was dead there was nothing he could have done about it. He was free to mourn and accept his feelings. Now Sherlock was alive again it caused complications. He couldn't tell Sherlock. He was sure the detective would never feel the same way. Of course he would. He has no feelings. Especially for John.

Sherlock watched John intensely. Something was bothering the man, his eyes were dull and there was a pallor to his skin that wasn't there in Sherlock's memories. What could be bother John? What could be the problem with Dr John Watson, the war veteran? He shook his head and stopped thinking about John's possible problems.

"Do we have a case yet?" He asked.

John looked up, snapped out of his thoughts. "Um... Probably. I'll just check the blog."

"Right..." John muttered. "Anyway, we have this email. We have a lot of emails... Wow."

"News travels fast John."

"No, it doesn't. Well, these are all from before you were... dead."

"Oh. Lestrade must not have done the press release yet. That or Mycroft is taking his time."

"Sherlock, you only just came back from the dead." John's voice cracked, he tried to cover it up with a coughing fit in hope Sherlock wouldn't detect it.

"You're right, John, but weeks without a case?" He didn't detect then. Instead he was jumping up and down in his chair. "I'm bored!"

"Keep it away from my walls. I have only just started to re-plastered them back up." Sherlock turned to the wall to see that John, had in fact, begun to cover up the bullet holes in the wall. Obviously he didn't get very far because only two had been filled.

"BOREEEED!"

"Sherlock, at least let people hear you're alive first. Have you even told Mrs Hudson yet?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock turned around and muttered something under his breathe. "Oh my god, you haven't yet. Have you?"

Sherlock looked up at John. "Does she need to know?"

"Sherlock!" John gasped. "Of course she does!"

"But... Fine." Sherlock sighed. He turned around and walked out of the door. "I'll go now."

John looked up, Sherlock was galloping down the stairs. His hair whipped out behind him, he jumped down the last few steps. It took John a few seconds to realise what Sherlock was trying to do.

"Oh shit! SHERLOCK!" He called. "Sherlock don't!" He raced after Sherlock. "Sherlock!" He hissed, trying not to alert Mrs Hudson to Sherlock's presence, but still trying to call Sherlock. "Sherlock!"

Before John even made it half way down the stair Sherlock was opening the door to 221A and storming in. The ear shattering scream of Mrs Hudson soon reached his ears. "MRS HUDSON!" John hurried through the door to Mrs Hudson's flat to find her staring at Sherlock in shock. Her face was drained and a cake tin laid forgotten on a floor. Sherlock walked over to her and gave the usual hug and kiss to the cheek. Mrs Hudson was still unable to talk. "Turns out I'm not dead after all."

John face palmed and groaned. "Delicate as always, Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

Again, thank you for all the sub/fav/reviews you are giving us. Sorry this chapter was later than the rest. Every Monday and Tuesday night I stay at my Nan's which has no internet connection. Rayne and I apologise, mainly me, but we have been continuing to write this via texts and mobile phone access. I just finished editing it so I could get this to you as soon as possible.

Again, feel free to review. We appreciate your views and ideas.

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><p>Mrs Hudson was sat at the table, a cup of tea in her hand. Sherlock was pacing up and down the kitchen and John was sat across from her, watching Mrs Hudson's movements and checking for signs of shock. She was watching Sherlock's pacing. Sherlock was watching his hands and mumbling to himself.<p>

"John," Mrs Hudson whispered. "how long has he been back?"

"Um.. He was back here yesterday about ten."

"I didn't see anyone come in..." She looked confused, a slight crinkle formed between her eyebrows.

"But it's Sherlock." John sighed, his eyes sliding across the room to settle on the pacing Sherlock.

"Mhmm." Mrs Hudson nodded, she was still watching Sherlock. "He doesn't look happy."

"I know." John sighed. "I don't know what to do about it."

Mrs Hudson reached out and took John's hand. "You just need to be there for him. He'll sort himself out eventually."

"I- I just want to help him." John said quietly. Mrs Hudson nodded, she knew that feeling more than anyone else - who wasn't John. She smiled and pulled her hand back, standing up she called to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, would you like some cake?"

"Cake?" Sherlock looked up as though Mrs Hudson and the idea of cake were alien. His eyes focused, he nodded slightly. "Cake would be good."

"Come sit down with John and I'll get you some cake." Mrs Hudson smiled and gestured to the seat she'd just vacated. "Cake, John?"

"Sure, Mrs Hudson." She smiled again before wandering off into the kitchen. A soft whimper reached the ears of John who let out a sigh. "You couldn't have been more delicate, Sherlock?"

"She's a strong lady. She'll be fine."

"You burst into her living room declaring you weren't dead."

"Only stating a fact." John shot a glare towards Sherlock.

"I'm going to go and help Mrs Hudson in the kitchen." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and began to scan through the knitting magazine Mrs Hudson had left on her oak side table. John stormed into the kitchen to find Mrs Hudson sat down at the kitchen table. She was still as pale as the moment Sherlock had stormed through her front door. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Mrs Hudson looked up as John sat opposite her. "I should expect it from him, dear. What about you though?"

"I'm still in shock, angry too. Glad he's back..." John's voice trailed off as the fridge door opened. Mrs Hudson, who had brought out a Victoria Sponge and a knife, began to cut the cake into sections.

"You know what I mean," she shot him that questioning look she usually would when they had been talking in the weeks of Sherlock's absence. "I'm not just an old fool, dearie."

Releasing John from her grasp, Mrs Hudson finished cutting and plating the cake. She offered John his and picked up the other two plates herself. "Do you think you will tell him?"

"No, I don't think I shall. I'll just continue acting the same. He's oblivious to matters of the heart anyway. Come on, Mrs Hudson. He may blank out when we come and go but we best get back and eat this cake." Mrs Hudson gave John a sympathetic smile before walking back into the living room. Sherlock was on the puffy armchair reading a book on bees. He looked quite engrossed. Upon hearing the heavy footsteps of John, he tore his eyes away from his book and saw Mrs Hudson offering him the piece of cake he had agreed to.

"Thank you." Sherlock took a bite of cake as the other two took their seats. "I think I owe you an explanation, Mrs Hudson."

"That would be nice, Sherlock. You had John and I upset."

"It was necessary," Sherlock placed his cake down on the side. He had eaten enough to pass as polite. "There was a man who wanted to kill me and he wasn't afraid to go after you or John to get to me. It was for your own good."

"But faking your death. What would your mother have said?" Sherlock snorted forcing John to roll his eyes. Mrs Hudson looked at John who gave her a look of'don't ask' but it was too late.

"My mother. Yes, what would she say? My mother wouldn't care, Mrs Hudson. She said it was an inconvenience. I mean nothing to her but oh how she worried about Mycroft during it all." Sherlock laughed again. "Explain it to her, John. I'm going to hack Lestrade's computer."

Sherlock quickly walked away, back upstairs and to his computer. He sat down and began a frenzied typing. "John?" Mrs Hudson asked, like always not understanding what Sherlock had just said.

"Sherlock and his family have a... strained relationship," John said. "His mother's a cold woman who cares for Mycroft more than Sherlock."

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson mouthed. "Poor Sherlock."

"Yeah," John said, putting his plate down, "his mother basically said she preferred me to him this morning. I don't even know her properly. Or at all."

There was a muffled thump and it sounded like something hit the wall upstairs.

"Welcome home, Sherlock." John sighed. He stood up and walked to the door. He reached out to open it when Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. He turned around and raised an eyebrow.

"Don't worry, love." Mrs Hudson said. "We both missed him."

"Yeah," John glanced upwards towards where Sherlock would be crashing about. "We did."

Mrs Hudson walked over to John and forced him back into a hug. Wrapping his arms around her, he sniffed briefly in before releasing from her grasp. "You best get back up to him, dearie."

"Yes. Goodbye, Mrs Hudson. I'll probably pop down later in the week for a... chat." They shared a look that meant they both were in an understanding of one another.

"Bye, John." Mrs Hudson closed the door after she had watched John slowly walk up towards 221B. The slight limp that had returned during those many weeks had now disappeared.

Sherlock stood over the desk, looking down at the laptop, The heavy thud had been Sherlock throwing the glass paperweight - that John had been given by Mycroft after the funeral - at the wall. Sherlock was glowering at the computer, waiting for something to load. Whether the loading was on the computer, or Sherlock's head, John couldn't tell.

"John," Sherlock looked up as John walked into the room. His eyes - John noticed - were the most perfect shade of slate blue. "I need you to do something."

"Yes?"

"Don't interrupt. I want you to go to tell Lestrade that you'll take on some cases, any cases that he needs help with."

"I can't." John said, walking over to the paperweight.

"Can't? Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"He would want to know why, I'd have to explain to him and - those idiots - the police still think you're a fake."

"Morons."

"Yes, I know." John said, placing the glass paperweight on the table. "Look after that, your brother gave it to me."

Sherlock looked down at the paperweight. It was a black glass ball with gold stripes, like the reverse of a tiger, and about the size of Sherlock's fist.

"It's a camera." Sherlock said. "Bubble cam controlled by Mycroft's operatives. Pretty though."

"Pretty?" John said, picking up the glass ball and peering at it. "I didn't think you thought anything was pretty."

"In the conventional sense." Sherlock said blankly. "Still, I won't have it near me."

"Ah," John could feel the conversation dying. He wasn't ready for it yet. "About Lestrade, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

"He's on our side." Our? Why on earth did he say our?

"I know. Been texting him for weeks off a secure line. We agreed that once I sent him the trigger text everything would begin." John put the ball back down and collapsed into the sofa.

"You told him?" John stared at the floor, the ache in his chest burning again. "You told him and not me? He went with me to the grave. Every weekend."

Sherlock looked down at John. Probably the wrong thing to bring up. Knowing how John was emotionally. "I know, John. I was there for every one."

John quickly raised his head to meet eyes with Sherlock. "You bastard!"

"Do be more imaginable with your insults, John. You're becoming very singular. He had to know. To help you." Walking over to the window, Sherlock began shuffling the papers quickly beginning to scatter his desk. "Anyway, who else would have plausibly helped me to clear my name without being noticed?"

John sank in his seat and looked at his feet. The news that Sherlock had been there, seen him, possibly even heard him, every time. Even, dear God, that time when he admitted to shooting the face when he missed Sherlock. Was he also there for the time when he told the grave that he still made two cups of tea, even though he didn't need to. Did he notice the slight limp John developed? Or the fact that he began to need his cane again? Did Sherlock notice the blue scarf?

"I... Okay." John said. "I understand."

Sherlock looked up, John's shoulders were slumped and he was rubbing his leg. The 'injury' was playing up due to emotional stress and turmoil, Sherlock reasoned. He put the stack of papers down and walked over to John and placed a gentle hand on John's shoulder. He quickly walked away, picking up his oversized jacket and throwing it over his shoulders.

"Want to come and protect the others from me?" He asked, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "I think we'll start with Lestrade."

"With you? I'd go anywhere," He tried to hide the eagerness in his voice but it was a lost cause. "Lestrade should be fine. He knows already, right? Would just be the rest of the world now."

"True. Knowing my brother the papers tomorrow will be publishing the work Lestrade and I have been collecting. Mycroft talks to Lestrade frequently. Knows he's been gathering a case in my favour. That being the case any chargers against me shall be dropped. Mycroft again. Should help at least." John smiled slightly. Yes. Mycroft and Greg did talk frequently. He always wondered why. "So... ready to throw that stick back in the closet, John?"

"You know about that then?"

"Yes, John. It started before the funeral." John looked at his feet. Again. Damn Sherlock. "Anyway, we need to go to Molly, the Yard, especially Anderson. I think I can tolerate his desperately low IQ for one night. Oh and we'll have to organise a press release. I need cases, John!"

"It's only been a few weeks. Can't you rest?" John pleaded.

"John," Sherlock paused. "You do realised it has been two and a half years, don't you?"

John sighed and slightly nodded. He had gotten into the habit of only comparing it to a few weeks. In his head it was weeks, his blog was something else. By referring it to weeks it made the time seem less. Like Sherlock had not been gone very long at all. Like it was nothing. Two years of his life wasn't nothing, as it? To John, without Sherlock... it was.

Sherlock began humming as he skipped down the steps. A slow, steady song that both calmed John and set him on edge. The calmness of the humming contrasting with the jerky, quick movements of Sherlock. John stepped forwards, his leg no longer aching any more. He quickly followed Sherlock down the stairs and out of the door.

"Taxi!" Sherlock called, waving his arm out at the road. "Here it is. Good. John, get in."

John climbed in the taxi as Sherlock shouted the address to the driver. Quickly, Sherlock jumped in after John.

"We're just going to pop by and say hello to a few people." John laughed, "I'm popping around town with a dead man. And even if he isn't dead, he's a man who will cause a lot of trouble with the police."

"That's another thing, John." Sherlock remarked, looking out the window. "I won't be able to go into the building. Not dressed like me. You'll have to get Anderson and the rest of his... gang outside the building to talk to me."

"Anderson hates you."

"He's just jealous." Sherlock sighed.

"Sure. You being obnoxious and insulting has nothing to do with it." John rolled his eyes. "Where are we going anyway? That wasn't the address of the Yard at all."

"We have to make a few stops along the way."


	5. Chapter 5

We would just like to thank those who are killing us lovely reviews, favs and subs. We love all this appreciation. Thank you.

Also I think it is important to mention that those who read Chapter 2 before we changed it, yesterday or the day before, we mentioned Sherlock faking his death within an explosion. However Rayne and I talked it over and we decided that it would be an unlikely and also to be post Reichenbach you do really need a fall. It's minor changes. About 4 lines of dialogue. Nothing special.

Anyway, enjoy chapter 5.

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><p>After taking them left down Marylebone Road, the taxi took a right and passed St Pancras Parish Church. John stared at the aging red doors and towering columns. He hadn't prayed in months. Two years five months in fact. Since after Sherlock 'died'. He remembered yelling into the night, calling to the Heavens. He pleaded for God to listen to him. To return his only friend to him. The one he loved. John would curl up and mutter prayer after prayer until his voice was hoarse. Most nights he had gone on until his throat was left dry, tears streaming down his face. He mouthed his pleas till he actually passed out.<p>

Whilst he was in Afghanistan his prayers had helped him. They had made him stronger. He wasn't exactly a strongly religious man. He didn't really resemble a religious man at all but when he was in need, when he felt at the end of his wick, he would talk to God. After a month, John stopped. No God was listening to his pleas. No Sherlock back alive and in his life. No best friend. It was John. Left alone. Though, we wasn't truly alone, was he? His friends and even Mycroft at one point had first gotten in the habit of checking up on him whilst he slept. In case he did something stupid apparently.

John continued to contemplate his decaying belief in God and the loyalty (and intrusion) of his friends whilst Sherlock continued to ramble on about something unimportant. Last time John checked he was on about a new Tesco Express on one of the corners John had forgotten. By the time the taxi drew up John had almost forgotten all about their detour. "Ready, John?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." John nodded. "I'm ready to go."

"We're here." Sherlock said, jumping out of the taxi.

"This... isn't where I expected to be." John said, stepping out behind Sherlock. He turned to the front of the taxi and paid the driver the fare.

"Well, it's where we need to be." Sherlock said. "Let's go see Molly."

"...Molly. She knows you're alive, doesn't she?" John mumbled, a short and sharp pain shot through Watson's heart. He could only compare it to being shot.

"Yes."

"Ah... She helped you, didn't she?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, his voice level and unemotional. He brushed past John and into the building. John followed slowly, his eyes looking dead ahead.

"You going to tell me how?"

"No. I don't think I shall." John sighed as they continued on their usual tour of St Barts. "I needed her help, John. They wouldn't suspect that she's a friend."

"I thought you only had one." John muttered bitterly. Sherlock halted in the hall and turned to look at John.

"In the usual social standards Molly is considered a friend," the words felt like ice to John. Numbing his heart. "By my standards there is only one." A slight warmth crept over his face as the pair continued on the path to the testing lab.

"Just one. Must get lonely." John laughed stiffly.

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "One is more then I've ever had."

The pair turned a corner and walked into the testing lab.

"Hello," Sherlock said politely. "How are you?"

Molly was bent over, examining a slide that - Sherlock noticed - held three types of soil on it. Molly gasped and turned around.

"Sherlock?"

"Obviously, Molly." Ah. The usual Sherlock charm. Molly's eyes darting towards John.

"JOHN! You told him. I thought you still had six months." Molly was failing miserably at whispering. John was within ear spot, pointless. Glancing over, Sherlock noticed she was taking regular care with her hair and wore a nice shade of lipstick that complimented her. Her mobile laid next to the table but appeared on silent. So not an emergency. Somebody she didn't like lacking communication with. Can't be a relative. She didn't usually do the beautifying for them. Only one possible solution.

"Got bored. How's the boyfriend?" Molly dropped a slide of darker soil on the worktop.

"How di- Never mind. He's fine. Not a psychopath this time." She let out a nervous giggle. Still insecure then, thought Sherlock. He hadn't seen Molly Hooper since two months after his supposed death. Some of the lower end papers that attracted the working class still sniffing about but not enough for her to elude detection and meet Sherlock with all the necessary documents. "Hello, John. It's been awhile."

"Mhmm..." John nodded, looking at Molly. The girl that had cried at Sherlock's funeral, the girl who'd come with him to the grave, the girl that had sat with him night after night as he spoke about Sherlock. What was wrong with him? She didn't betray him... Did she? "Hello Molly."

Molly looked flustered, her cheeks were a light pink and her eyes kept darting back and forth between Sherlock and himself. John noticed too much these days.

"How are you?" Molly asked, playing with her fingers and scratching her ankle with her other foot.

"I'm fine. Surprised, but I'm okay." John sighed, he nodded at Sherlock. "He's a bugger."

"Isn't he always?" Molly laughed nervously.

"I am not a bugger, John." Sherlock said quickly. "Molly, I need your help."

"Again?" Molly asked.

"Again?" John sighed.

"Again." Sherlock confirmed.

John didn't even know why he was here. Sherlock hadn't told him any of this. Yet he trusted Lestrade and Molly enough. The people he didn't even call a friend. John felt torn. Torn between following Sherlock on his many adventures, enjoying the rush of the case or he could just ignore it all. Pack up and leave. John doubted he could even do the latter. Ever. "If you don't need me then, I'll go get a coffee."

"No, John. You're needed here too." John lowered his hand from the door handle and leant against the wall. This was going to take some time. "Molly, I need your expertise. John here is good but not in the same fields as you. Especially when it comes to ... design."

"How can I help?" Her usual perky tone was back. Slight smile twitching at her mouth. John looked her. Her eyes were normal, no sweaty hands and as far as he could tell her heart rate was fine. Serious about the boyfriend then. Not flirting. Just eager to help like the good old Molly nature would allow. Least John didn't need to see her messed around with by Sherlock just for some cadavers any more.

"What do you need?" John asked, curious as to what was going on in Sherlock's head.

"Anderson." Sherlock said, his fingers rapping against the wall. "I need him to know I'm alive. Lestrade knows, but he's know for a while. He's a trustworthy man, but he can't tell Anderson."

Molly looked at John, a confused half smile crossed her face.

"I need that man to know before the press release, that's tomorrow by the way, and I need to tell him myself." Sherlock continued, unaware of the other two not following him. "Molly, you need to call him on the case you've got for him. Tell him you've got John to help you."

"I- Okay." Molly bubbled. "I'll do that now." She grabbed her phone from the desk and searched the contacts. "Give me a second."

"Fine." Sherlock said simply.

"I still don't- What am I doing here?" John asked, watching Molly on the phone to Anderson. "Am I simply here to... frustrate Anderson?"

"No," Sherlock said, pushing himself off the wall, "you're here to find the signs of trauma on this body. I recommend looking at the fractured jawbone."

"Sherlock, a dead man cannot work cases. Yet."

"Exactly. That's why you are. Like you have been." John sighed.

"But Anderson? You hate Anderson. His supposed intelligence irks you. Also, I doubt he would be too pleased to see me." John scuffed his feet as he walked over to the worktop to look at the autopsy photos of case file #189B5. Showed no sign of apparent fracture to the jawbone itself, though it was there, and something was abnormal about the right side. Sherlock was looking at him with the usual interest.

"What did you do, John?" John mumbled, head down. Even with his hearing, Sherlock strained to hear John. He wasn't making it easy for him. He enquired again, with more force this time. "What did you do, John?"

"I... I punched him in the face, multiple times, didn't I? He had to go to the hospital." John picked up the photo of the man's jaw again. Trying to avoid the subject.

Sherlock stood in stunned silence. Really? He hadn't heard of an incident between John and Anderson... Who the - Lestrade covered it up. It was the only answer. Well done to him, keeping information away from Sherlock Holmes was a difficult task indeed.

John looked up at Sherlock, down at the case file and back to Sherlock's raised eyebrows.

"He was just... Infuriating." John explained. "Constantly on about how he was right about you."

"Oh, faithful John. Faithful John indeed." Sherlock muttered. He looked John in the eyes, "You shouldn't have."

"I- I know." John said, rather like a schoolboy being told off by his teacher. "But he was so nasty about you."

"He's Anderson," Sherlock stated, "his brain is too full of Donervan to be occupied with much else."

"I know." Sighed John. He looked down at the pictures and began tracing his own jawbone. "What am I missing here?

"Only the obvious, John. As usual." John rolled his eyes. Death hadn't stopped him being insufferable. "Look at the right side. Under the ear but not low enough to be the neck. There on the jaw. Do you see it? Looks like a simple mole or freckle from here. Normal but if you look at the surrounding skin area you can tell it isn't that at all. No sign of needle marks so it isn't an abnormal bruise but it's something that left a stain. One that would be disregarded. Certain chemicals do that. Definitely some poisons. According to the file he died in his sleep. Obvious murder but unapparent causes. No clear motives and no sign of wanting to cover the murder up. This person wanted to get caught but why? Not like anybody could pick this up. Obviously Molly didn't and seeing as Anderson was the person in charge of this crime scene, you can be certain he wouldn't. No, this killer was clever. Knew the audience he was attracting. Wants to be seen but by people he feels worthy of it. Chemical shouldn't be too hard to find. I would like to run some tests but that would be problematic."

John felt a smile tugging at his smile. He missed this. He missed it completely. No matter what he said. This was Sherlock and everything he missed about him. He simply nodded and turned around to look up at Sherlock. "Brilliant."

"Still fascinated easily I see." Sherlock smirked.

Sherlock grinned rather smugly as John set about examining the pictures. Molly wandered over to them, her phone call finished.

"He'll be here in ten minutes or probably less, Sherlock. You better be ready by then."

Sherlock nodded. He turned to John, "You need to buy me some time."

"Will do."

"Good." Sherlock said, stretching the o sound and ending with a sharp d. A small bubble seemed to burst in the room as he said finished his word. Before Molly could even ask Sherlock anything he was pacing up and down the lab looking for the perfection possession to work (and gloat in front of Anderson when he arrived). Turning to her next best bet, Molly looked at John and cheerfully enquired.

"Got the method of how he was killed yet?"

"Poison." John replied. "I can't tell you which unless I have the body, but I can tell you where it entered the bloodstream."

Molly nodded. "Save that for Anderson."

"Speak of the devil." John said quietly. The noise coming from the door was clearly Anderson arriving. Extremely early. "Here he comes now."


	6. Chapter 6

Us again, guys. We just want to thank you for those lovely reviews! I mean seriously, they make our day, and all your subbers? We really really appreciate it.

A few changes. I've changed the formatting. Speech is only going to be italic now. The bold will be for texts or emails etc. I've gone through the rest of this story and done the same to the rest of the chapters.

Enjoy this chapter though.

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><p>The door to the lab creaked open as the figure representing Anderson wandered in. Sherlock could see John in the corner. His eyebrows were beginning to frown, fists clenched. Obviously John had grown infuriated more and more by Anderson over the last two years. It was almost amusing. "What is it that is so important, Mol- John?"<p>

"Excellent deduction, Anderson. That is John." Sherlock said coolly from the other side of the room. Anderson tensed at the sound of the voice creeping into his ears. He slowly began to turn around to try and get a glimpse of the man sitting on the far ended stool. Molly and John watched in wait.

"You."

"Me."

"Why- what are you doing here?" Anderson stuttered. "How- you're alive."

"Very observant." Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his hair, "Yes, I am alive."

"...how?"

"How? Well now, that - my dear Anderson - would be telling." Sherlock grinned quickly. His face soon settled back into it's usual focused mask. "Anderson, I need your help."

Molly and John exchanged a worried look. What was Sherlock planning? They hadn't been told of his plan... Plans? John shook his head slightly as Molly's eyes searched his face.

"Never thought I'd hear that. Sherlock Holmes. Master fake. Needing MY help. I'm afraid I don't help criminals." Sherlock could see John's eyes had dilated, the vein on his neck appeared to be beating at a faster rate and his breathing had become harsh. Ever the loyal John.

"Anderson, as from tomorrow even somebody of your brain capacity will be aware of the truth before them. As it has always been. Stop being deluded and help me and maybe I could help you with this John Doe mystery of yours with the fractured jaw." Anderson looked dumbstruck. Though, Sherlock thought, no different to his usual clueless expression.

"I'm going to ring the Yard." Anderson replied sternly without a moments consideration.

"It wouldn't matter. It will be cleared by tomorrow. Now, are you going to use that brain of yours for something other than daydreaming about Donovan scrubbing your floors?"

"Hu-" Anderson huffed and spun on his heel. He pulled his phone out and dialled a number. Sherlock watched him walk away.

"I give him five minutes to return, ten if he argues."

"Sherlock, it's Anderson. He will argue." John whispered through clenched teeth. His knuckles where white and he was breathing heavily, still.

"John?" Molly put her hand on John's arm. "Calm down, please?"

"I- yeah. Sorry." John sighed, unclenching his fists. "He just gets to me."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock nodded. Why was John so protective of him? It wasn't as though Sherlock couldn't protect himself. He wasn't unable to fight Anderson, if the need arose. Ever faithful John.

John smiled tensely, his eyes strained behind the mask he put on his face. Anderson's voice was echoing down the corridor, a faint echo of "What do you bloody mean?" reached the lab.

Sherlock shook his head. "Some people never learn. Lestrade knows I'm here."

Sherlock could see John glaring towards the door. A look of anger strongly imprinted on his face. John was loyal but he couldn't understand why he was acting like this. He was usually protective but not this much. Something was different but Sherlock couldn't tell what. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I said 'Are you going to tell us what is going on?' because we sure as hell don't know and Anderson is going to come storming in here any second and we'd like to know before I punch the sod in the bloody face or better yet ring his wife." A muffled laugh came from Molly in the corner. She had her head buried in some paperwork but it was obvious she was beaming underneath.

"No point with the wife front, she's been sleeping with Peterson for five years."

"Peterson? You mean on the forensic team? How the hell do you know these things still? You've been gone nearly three years." John groaned in the corner, tapping his fingers on the side of his leg in a rhythmic fashion. He was agitated. "He best come in soon."

"He will. He just threw his phone at the wall." Both Molly and John strained their necks to listen at the door. True enough they heard the mumbling frustrations of Anderson and the heavy footprints storming back towards the lab.

Anderson stormed through the doors.

"Sherlock Holmes." He snapped. "You are a bastard."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked, his face impassive. "I hadn't noticed."

John suppressed a laugh; Sherlock's utter boredom with Anderson's anger and frustration only made Anderson worse. But clearly, Lestrade had told Anderson something of importance.

"Lestrade says that you," He looked at Sherlock, "and you," he looked at John, "should come with me. But I, personally, don't feel safe with you two around."

Sherlock looked at John. A slight nod from him caused made John's face break out into a grin. Anderson noticed this and shifted on his toes.

"So, I'm saying you two go on your own and we'll... assemble... there."

"Good idea, Anderson." Sherlock said, his voice unusually cheerful. "John and I need to make one more stop home, and then we'll meet you at the Yard." He didn't wait for a reply but instead brushed past the stunned Anderson and out of the lab doors.

"Bye Molly." John said hurriedly. "Anderson."

"Have fun John!" Molly called as he left the room. She looked Anderson up and down, he was looking disgustedly at the doors.

"Fuckin' bastard." Anderson spat.

"Get out of here." Molly snapped. "And never say that about Sherlock, or John, around me again."

"Why do you stick up for the freak, Molly? Why do you do it? You don't still love it do you?" He eyes her up, sneering at her.

"He's my friend. Now. Get. Out. Or some mortuary security tapes of you and Donovan might accidentally end up in your wife's hands." Anderson looked profoundly. This was not the usual Molly Hooper he had pushed around and bullied all those years. This was somebody completely different. John had the right idea. Bring his wife into the equation and Anderson shuts up. "Stop staring. I'm a nice person normally but you've opened that gob of yours one too many times and it's annoying a lot of people. I'm not just sweet, innocent Molly, Anderson. Now get out of my lab before I get security to throw you out."

She had clearly done her job because no sooner had she finished speaking had he stormed out of the lab doors, leaving Molly to mutter under her breath before finally returning to her soil samples.

Sherlock and John were just entering a cab as a riled Anderson stormed out of St Barts. He shot a glance at them before thundering off in the other direction. "What's the matter with him now?"

"Anderson is very splenetic, John. I do believe Molly did all the things that I asked of her successfully." A smile tugged at the side of Sherlock's face as he informed the driver to take them to 221B Baker Street.

"Anderson was... Helpful." John commented, looking out the window at the grey streets of London.

"Very helpful indeed." Sherlock confirmed. John was watching the streets flash by, Sherlock was watching John. Sherlock was sat, leaning back into the seat, relaxed and comfortable. John seemed the complete opposite, leaning forwards and sitting on the edge of his seat. His face was tense and he was rubbing his hands together. He sighed deeply and turned to Sherlock.

"So, news conference. That's tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes." Sherlock rapped his knuckles against his knee and hummed quietly. "It will be tomorrow and I will be there. I need Lestrade, Anderson and their skilled,"Sherlock raised an eyebrow here, "teams to be there."

"Oh. Okay." John said, slightly relieved, slightly offended and hurt that he wasn't on the list.

"You sound disappointed. Don't you want my name to be cleared so you can stop punching people?" Sherlock laughed to himself as John turned to look out the window, mumbling under his breath. "Oh. John, you do realise I expect you to be there, don't you?"

The tension is John's body disappeared and he smiled slightly as he stared at the passing street. He didn't have any idea on why they were going back to Baker Street or why they had to go to the Yard. Truth be told he didn't know anything but it didn't matter. He was back doing what he loved and he could try and get rid of the last two years. Hopefully. Though he didn't welcome back the stress that came along with it.

"Just stop here, we can walk from here." Sherlock informed the taxi driver as he pulled up to the curve. They were a two minute walk away. Not bad. Hurdling out the the taxi, Sherlock and John began the walk back to Baker Street in silence. Sherlock expected John to talk, like he use to, but he deduced that maybe not talking at all was all the best. He could tell John was having trouble adjusting to having Sherlock back around. Of course it wasn't the idea of going on cases. No, Sherlock knew John had helped on two cases in those three years. It was something else and he would find out even if it metaphorically killed him.

John walked next to Sherlock in silence. He thought about the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. The enigma that had kept him occupied for three years. It wasn't as though John had sat and twiddled his thumbs, waiting for the day he could see Sherlock again. John had gone through all of Sherlock's clippings, scrawlings and music. He'd filed it all and studied it extensively. He thought he knew most of the way Sherlock's thoughts worked, but having Sherlock back made him realise that he knew nothing about the thoughts of a madman.

That wasn't fair to Sherlock, John thought, calling him a madman just because John was frustrated with himself. He muffled a sigh, passing it off as a yawn, as they reached the door of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock whipped out his keys and unlocked the doors. He swept in the doorway and ran up the stairs.

"Where is it... where would you have hidden it?" Sherlock shouted. "John, where have you put it?"

"It would be helpful if you had told me what it was."

"You know what it is!" Sherlock shouted, he was in his room. "I wan- Aha! Found it!"

"So... What is it?" John asked, his curiosity pulling him out of his thoughts and the dark mood that came with them.

"My skull, John!"

"Your skull? For God's sake, Sherlock. It's just a bloody skull." John yelled loud enough to let Sherlock hear as he fell back into his usual chair. He remembered that he had put the skull in Sherlock's room after the first five months. It was too creepy in the living room so he kept it in Sherlock's room, where he could talk to it at night before he would fall to sleep. It calmed him a little. That minor element of the old Sherlock.

"It's not my skull, John! It's what's in my skull that is important. I planted in there months ago whilst you were asleep."

"Whilst I was asleep? You came back here whilst I slept?"

"Irrelevant. Back to the matter, John. Stop straying and pay attention. The skull, John. You had to move it to my room, didn't you? Inconvenient. I lodged something under the parietal bone. It is important.." Sherlock was now pacing up and down in front of John, flipping the skull upside down and looking inside. It wasn't long before he pulled out a miniature tape recorder.

"What is that?"

"The key to the truth, John."

"The... The key?" John said, straining to turn around and look at him. Sherlock was stood with the skull in one hand, like the portrait of a Shakespearean actor. "What's on it?"

"On it?" Sherlock said, his brain not quite making the connection. He was rubbing the skull and peering at it, rather like a protective mother.

"On the tape, Sherlock."

"Only the proof of my innocence. It's the only copy so if we lose this, I will be disgraced forever." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. His eyes darted back to his skull. John could've sworn he heard Sherlock ask it if it was okay and if John had been nice to it.

"Let's go then." Sherlock said abruptly. "To the Yard."

John sighed and stood up, Sherlock was driving him around the bend. John knew he cared for Sherlock, but the man was so frustrating that sometimes John wanted to wrap his hands around Sherlock's neck. Most likely, the result would be a fight between the two with them both getting minor injuries. Sherlock wasn't defenceless, neither was John.

"Get up, John!"

"I'm getting up." John heaved himself out of his chair, the short break of being home had made him even less eager to meet the rest of the police. Even Greg, who John liked, would be a stress.

They hurdled down the stairs and back out through the front door. A taxi was already waiting for them outside. Obviously Sherlock had organised that somehow. "Hurry up, John. The game is afoot!"

"Oh God. Don't do that. Ever again." John groaned as he seated himself on the far side near the window. Sherlock looked puzzling at him as he seated himself next to John.

"What?"

"Don't act to the bloody stereotype. I've had enough of deerstalkers and pipes and now you saying that? Just stop it."

"Coincidence. Nothing more." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Scotland Yard, step on it."


	7. Chapter 7

More subscribers, welcome. Hello to the old ones. I'd quickly like to thank those who are following this and me. You guys are sweet. Rayne and I are adoring doing this for you. Enjoy.

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><p>The two man sat in the taxi; John absent minded and tense, Sherlock excited and bouncy.<p>

"John," Sherlock said, "shouldn't we... talk?"

"Huh?" John looked at Sherlock, a small crease grew between his eyebrows.

"We haven't talked since that argument." Sherlock said, his eyes locking John's gaze, "And that wasn't actually talking."

"Oh," John shuffled in his seat, "what do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know... Usually you do all the talking."

"Usual- Sherlock, I haven't talked to you for three years!"

"Two and a half years."

"Right, that. Yeah, but I still haven't talked to you for two and a half years." John huffed. "But I'll try. Okay, so while you were gone-"

"Wasn't there a girl?" Sherlock asked.

"A girl?" John's eyebrow raised, he turned to Sherlock, "There was. Not any more."

"Oh, that's a shame." Sherlock said flatly. "What was her name? Marley, Masey, M... M-something. Mmm..."

"Mary."

"That's the one!" Sherlock shouted. "It's a shame you're not with her. I liked her, less... frilly then the other ones you had."

"You do realise," John said sternly, "that they're women? Not objects."

"People are objects, John. To be used and discarded when their usefulness comes to an end."

"So I'm just a object to you, am I?" Sherlock chuckled. John was being absurd. If he was just an object to him than Sherlock would have gotten rid of him ages ago. He wouldn't have even bothered to come back.

"Don't be illogical, John. What happened with Marley anyway?"

"Mary and ... we had different interests. That's not the point though, Sherlock. You took me off topic. Thr-" Sherlock shot him a judging glance. "Fine. Two and a half years. It wasn't easy, you know. Not like you had it hard. Just waiting."

Sherlock remembered twelve months ago when he wrestled with a top Russian assassin. Hand to hand combat to the death. He had barely made it out alive but it was the first of Moriarty's men to go. Nine months ago, using only a machete, he took out a famous organisation in Israel that were planning an attack on London. Seven months ago was the sword fight with another henchman. Five months ago he was trailing through sludge and slime to apprehend some vital information that could help his case. Three months ago he took out the last of the assassins. After nearly falling off the Eiffel Tower. Looking towards John, he nodded. "Hmmm. It was easy, wasn't it?"

John sighed and looked Sherlock up and down. "You've always got something up your sleeve. What are we doing now?"

Sherlock noted the sudden change in conversation topic. "You'll have to wait. I just want to talk to the police before the stampede tomorrow."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, his quiet observing eyes watched John's every move.

"If that's all, why am I here then?" John huffed. He was aware that his actions were childish, but he didn't want to be here. Especially if they were talking to that pompous dick of a boss that Lestrade - Greg - had to put up with. John's hands clenched into fists just thinking about it.

"Calm down John. We're here." Sherlock said, almost laughing. "And we seem to have got some attention."

"No shit, Sherlock." John sighed, "You did just come back from the dead."

In front of the main doors stood Greg, Anderson and Donovan.

"Welcome back Sherlock." Greg nodded, "John, how have you been?"

"I've been... Fine." John forced the word out of his mouth like it was poison.

"'Ello freak." Donovan said, "Didn't expect to see you again." Her voice was laced with sarcasm, dripping with venom. She was dead set against Sherlock, the doubt that Moriarty had placed in her mind had bloomed, blossomed and multiplied rapidly. It was probably spurned on by her underlying hatred of Sherlock.

"Ah, the lovely Sergeant. Still scrubbing Anderson's floors, I see." Sherlock sniped. "And you're still married, Anderson. Well done."

"Sherlock, leave them alone for now. Did you get it?" Lestrade looked at him, eager for results.

"Obviously, Lestrade. Do you expect anything else?"

"You to murder some sod?" Donovan snapped from the back. "I dunno why we aren't allowed to arrest you but you wait, Freak. You wait." Turning around she stormed through the Yard front doors. Anderson sneered. Everything in his body language said he wanted to follow but he was forcing himself to stay.

"You know what to do with it, Lestrade." Lestrade simply nodded. John was looking at them from behind Sherlock. His fists still clenched. He still felt somewhat betrayed by Greg. Every time he went to the graveyard with John, every time he told John to move on or that he was gone, every time he watched John break down and cry, every nightmare; he knew and John couldn't help but forget that and put it to one side. He wasn't exactly angry with him but he couldn't look at Greg directly. He understood why he did it. He understood it was to protect John and even then Greg was only told so Sherlock could organise a case to help him.

"You're going to have to come in I'm 'fraid, Sherlock. The boss, y'know." Sherlock nodded briefly and turned back to John asking a silent question.

"Yes but if he goes off on one I will punch him again."

"You're going to have to stop punching everybody, John. Damaged knuckles don't work well for a doctor."

The small group walked in through the main doors, John trailing behind the others.

"So, the boss is where then?" He asked, quietly.

Sherlock spun around. "Fourth floor, twelfth door. It's a double sized office, not that you'd expect anything else really." He looked at Lestrade, "Am I right?"

"Why do you ask? You clearly know you are." Greg sighed. "Okay, this is your choice-"

"Stairs." Sherlock said, speeding past the lift, "I choose stairs."

Greg shot John a single look, an unspoken question was asked and answered. John and Greg followed Sherlock up the stairs.

John looked up, Sherlock was running up the stairs and dodging anyone in his way. His coat was flapping behind him as he ran. John sighed and looked at Greg out of the corner of his eye. Greg was stressed, that much was clear. He needed a holiday.

Suddenly there was a commotion up the stairs.

"Shit." Greg mouthed. "That's coming from the fourth floor!"

"Sally's obviously gone to the boss running her mouth off." Everybody turned to see Anderson. They had almost forgotten about his presence. "You already informed him and showed him the case file didn't you, Sir?"

"Yes, Anderson. He's given us until four to analyse that tape."

"Give it here then, him and I can run up to the lab." Both John and Lestrade looked at him in amazement. Sherlock had his usual unsurprised expressed."Look, as much as I'd like to see him behind bars it's been boring without him. That and I nehuehidheilp"

"What was that last part you mumbled?" Lestrade questioned.

"I need his help." Sherlock chuckled, showing a proud smile.

"Come on then, Anderson. I can tolerate to be in a room without your face putting me off for awhile."

"Psychopath."

"Sociopath, Anderson. We discussed this. Many times." John was dumbstruck. This wasn't the Anderson he knew.

"John," Sherlock said, turning around suddenly. "Lestr-Greg and you should go somewhere else, I have a feeling you'll punch this man in the face the second we walk in the room." Sherlock smiled a crooked half smile, the one John was so fond of, "And Donovan is going to be mouthing off too. It's never polite to hit a lady."

John looked up at Sherlock. He nodded, one sharp nod. Sherlock knew best, especially about John's actions. "Okay."

"Si- Greg," Anderson turned to Lestrade, "if there's any... trouble, I'll call you."

"Do so, without delay." Lestrade nodded. "Come then, John."

Sherlock marched up the stairs, leaving Anderson behind. John and Greg walked down the stairs, neither able to look the other in the eyes. Once they'd reached the bottom of the stairs Lestrade cleared his throat.

"John, I'm sorry."

John froze, he'd both wanted this and dreaded this. Lestrade had done nothing wrong, not really. Not like Sherlock had. Greg was simply protecting John from the truth, because if John had known the truth, he'd have put himself in danger for Sherlock. And that was a possibility that Sherlock had calculated and factored in to his plan. He couldn't have John risking everything to save him. This much John knew.

"Don't be." John smiled, a stiff please-believe-me kind of smile. One that even Lestrade could see past. "Really."

"John, it's not okay. I am sorry. Sherlock's plans... Well, he's Sherlock so I trusted him but I didn't like hurting you. Watching... I'm sorry."

John shook his head. "I told you, don't be. The only person that should be sorry is Sherlock and we all know he isn't."

"Mhmm."

"Let's go get a coffee. I need one." They walked in silence, Lestrade leading the way. John didn't want to think about how Sherlock was doing up there with Anderson. For now he wanted something to take it all off his mind. Walking out the doors to Scotland Yard they walked until they came to a coffee shop. John sat by the window whilst Greg went and ordered the drinks. As John looked out of the window he could see the busy London life pass him by. It was all suddenly so surreal. When would it all be able to go back to normal? What even was normal? He didn't know any more.

"Here you go, John." Accepting the cup, John never tore his gaze from the window. Lestrade looked at him with worry. He knew it wasn't alright. John had been through so much over these two and a half years. That wasn't suddenly going to go away. "I never told him, John."

"Huh?" John replied, still refusing to look away. His eyes currently fixated upon a late model blue Citron with a blonde female inside. Hair down, make-up standard. She was removing a ring from her finger, it looked gold. Adulterer most likely. Especially with the top she was wearing. Too informal for an interview.

"You know what I mean, John. The things you said in your sleep and then the other stuff you told me and Mrs Hudson."

"Oh. That." The woman got of the the car. Her skirt could have been used as a tea towel, thought John. She walked over to a building with a black door and rang the bell.

"John." Lestrade said sternly.

"Hmmm?" A tall man in causal wear opened the door and welcomed the woman with a hug. Hand firmly positioned upon the right buttock. Definitely not an interview.

"John, pay attention to me." Greg said sternly, he grabbed John's wrist. John turned to face Lestrade.

"Get off."

"Fine." Lestrade said, letting go of John's wrist. He stared into John's eyes. "You need to tell him though, you can't hide forever."

John turned back to the window. A heavy silence settled on the two men. Lestrade sipped his drink and cracked his knuckles. John looked out of the window. Cars drove past and people walked on, consumed in their daily lives. They weren't really there, not to John. John's head was full of doubts, worries, fears and Sherlock. It was so full of Sherlock that he thought he would fall apart at the seems.

"I don't know how to." John said at last. "Before... It was so easy, I didn't have time to think. I didn't have time to wonder how I felt about him." He paused. "And then... Then he died. And then I was left alone."

"I... I know." Lestrade said, his eyes clouded with pain. "I saw."

"And now... He's okay." John looked at Lestrade. "I'm not."

"I know." Lestrade grimaced. "I-"

BRRRZZT BRRRZZT

Lestrade's phone buzzed in his pocket. He picked it up, the caller ID showed it was Anderson's number. He answered it.

"Hello?"

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Anderson. Sherlock's... talking to the boss. I've been kicked out but Sherlock told me to call you. Someone's in trouble."


	8. Chapter 8

Parts of the original transcript from the Reichenbach Sherlock episode start this off, Guys. It may also appear to be going a little fast but it was purposely intended. I promise you.

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><p><strong>"But then how did you-"<strong>

**"How did I break into the bank, to the Tower, to the prison? Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Shall we finish the game? One final act? Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."**

**"Do it? Do what? ...Yes of course. My suicide."**

**"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales. And pretty grim ones too."**

**"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."**

**"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Please!"**

**"You're insane."**

**"You're just getting that now? Wo-wo-wo! OK. Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."**

**"John?"**

**"Not just John. Everyone."**

**"Mrs Hudson?"**

**"Everyone."**

**"Lestrade?"**

**"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now... unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die unless..."**

**"Unless I kill myself and complete your story."**

**"You've got to admit, that's sexier."**

**"And I die in disgrace.**

**"Of course. That's the point of this. Oh. You've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it."**

The Chief Superintendent squirmed in his chair. Hitting the pause button, the soft Irish accent came to a halt. Still leaving a chilling air within in the room."And this is the exact recording? No editing?"

"Anderson already explained that." The Chief Superintendent nodded, eyes drawing back to the recorder. He hadn't expected this to happen. Especially when Lestrade had presented him with the case file a week ago. Of course he had demanded a confession from Moriarty then all the paper work he had organised could be signed and Sherlock Holmes, freak to top all freaks, would be... free. Free of all charges and to help them with their current mess. Since his death, crime rates had sky rocketed and the amount of solved cases sank. He hated to admit it but the man was their only chance.

"Lestrade already told you what would be happening tomorrow, didn't he?" Sherlock nodded. He wasn't in the mood for this. This was boring. He had to though. It was necessary and there was the hopes of a new, interesting, case. From outside the door, the pair could hear the crashes of doors and footprints running quickly towards them. The carrying voice of Anderson trying to explain and telling them to wait. A cry of "The hell I will!" and the sounds of the door opening as a rather flushed John Watson stormed through it.

"Hello John." Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stand outside for a few minutes."

"Bu-"

"Please?"

"Five minutes." John sighed. "That's all."

John walked out of the room, into the corridor and stood, leaning against the wall. Anderson was stood across the corridor talking to Lestrade. John caught a second of their conversation. "...this one's a kidnapping... We need Sherlock."

John turned around and pressed his forehead to the cold concrete of the wall. He shut his eyes and counted to ten. That anger just then, it wasn't normal for him. It scared him.

"John?" Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder. "I need you and Sherlock to help me on a case, when the boss says yes."

"When the boss says yes?" Anderson snipped, "I think you mean if."

"No, when." Sherlock said, opening the door of the office. "Come in."

Everybody piled into the Chief Superintendent's office, who looked rather flushed. Five minutes with Sherlock was enough to do this but this was far greater than that. "Lestrade, has Anderson informed you of the details?"

"Just that there has been a kidnapping, Sir. Though I heard it wasn't in my division."

"This bloody one is, Lestrade. It's been ordered." The Chief Superintendent bellowed. He dabbed a cloth across his head before taking in a deep breath.

"Heart medication. Middle shelf." Sherlock coolly spoke from the corner of the room, standing behind everybody else.

"Wha- Never mind. Not the time. Mr Holmes is aware of the situation and apparently this... Watson fellow has to help him. Not could or will. Has to." He glared at John as if he could cut him down. "This is important, Lestrade. The press can't know that he's helping or alive. Yet. Not until he's solved the fucker."

"Who is it, Sir?"

"Sir Adrian Fulford."

"Shit." Lestrade suddenly looked pale. "It's not... you know? Based is it, Sir?"

"It is."

"Crap." Both Anderson and Lestrade said in unison. John stood there looking confused.

"A judge, John." Sherlock spoke again, reading John's confused structure. "He's the first outwardly gay man to be named a judge in Britain who just so happens to be a human rights expert and one of the first members to be sworn into the War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague."

"Oh God and you think it'-"

"We know, Mr Watson." The Chief Superintendent opened the top shelf of his desk and pulled out an obviously photocopied version of a random note.

**When the poof is judged and the clock ticks on,**

**Who will stop me before the fag is gone?**

**Will you wait for him to burn down to the butt?**

**Or will you all get stuck in the same old rut?**

**Can you see past the mirrors and smoke?**

**Or will you stumble and begin to choke?**

Sherlock read it quickly. "Handwritten. Quickly scrawled. Simple rhymes. It was written hurriedly, just before someone ran to get the post. See the way it's been folded in half twice, both uneven? Hurriedly folded and then folded again." John nodded, writing down Sherlock's observation in his own unique shorthand. He watched Sherlock, also making notes on the way Sherlock spoke and stood. These 'early warning signs', as he had dubbed them, told him roughly how long the case would last.

"It's written quickly, what about the words?" Lestrade asked. "The actual words used?"

Sherlock span to him. "The use of "poof" and "fag" make this seem homophobic. The use of "burn down", "mirrors" and "smoke" make this seem... Magic."

"Magic?" John mouthed, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock's thoughts.

"Tell me, Lestrade, have there been any circuses lately?"

"None that I know of."

"So," Sherlock paced, "someone who has a history of violence, was in a circus for a length of time and is left handed. That is who we are looking for."

"Anything else? Like his shoe size or what he had for breakfast?" The Chief Superintendent said sarcastically.

"By the looks of it the substance smudged on the side of the note appears to be ketchup. So most like a full English. Just a presumption though. I lack the original note." Sherlock was rearranging his scarf as he walked towards the door. "Oh and Chief, he's a ringmaster."

With that he stormed out of the office, John trailing behind. "How on earth did you about ringmaster thing?"

"The words, John." Sherlock sighed as he quickly chose the stairs as John was worthlessly trying to figure out what he meant. Pulling out his newly acquired Blackberry he began to search for recent cases of Fulford. "Several months ago Fulford took on an minor case involved with some Russian circus people. They lost everything. Ringmaster a lot of money. His right arm too. Owed some to loan sharks. Read about it whilst in Paris. Must have stored the information."

John had to run to catch up with Sherlock. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they tore out of the front door. A loud beep emitted from John's pocket.

**Keep me updated. - Greg.**

Putting his phone back into his pocket, he stared at the pale man from the corner of his eye. Sherlock was trying to haul a cab and John, himself, was being forced back into his old life. Just how he loved it. "Where on earth are we going, Sherlock?"

"Isn't it obvious, John?"

"We don't all possess your massive intellect."

"I forget how boring it is for you." A taxi pulled up to the side of the curb. "Hackney. On the double. Come on, John."

"And why Hackney?" Said John, seated firmly inside the taxi.

"Victorian warehouse, big chimneys used to burn coal. Use to be a factory that made mirrors in the thirties but closed. Also, it's private."

"You're unbelievable." John beamed as he secretly typed the location to Lestrade.

The taxi pulled up and John paid the driver. The black cab pulled away and left Sherlock and John on their own in front of the warehouse.

"...pretty." John said, his voice didn't shake, but there was a feeling he didn't quite like about the place.

"Very." Sherlock agreed, somewhat unaffected by the atmosphere. He started off at a brisk walk and opened the door. He pulled out from the volumes of his coat a torch. A small LED flashlight. He flicked it on and marched towards the building, John hot on his heels.

"What are we looking for?" John asked.

"I'll know when I see it." Sherlock answered, vague as ever.

"You're solving this extremely quick, y'know? They'll get suspicious."

"Three years. No real cases. Bored. Now shut up. I need to think." John mentally corrected the three years to two and a half within his head. He was worried that Donovan would be nagging and planting ideas into the Chief's head already. The evidence was plain to see. Sherlock Holmes was an innocent man. Not that she cared about that. Looking up on the warehouse roof, John noticed how it slanted slightly towards the back.

"I'll go look around back. Don't do anything stupid. Like go inside." Walking around the corner, John could see nothing but gravel and dried grass. On the other side of the road however was a grey van. Crossing over, John could see that the license plates were Russian. Inside was a mess. Magazines, take away coffee cups and rope. Also what appeared to look like parts to a prosthetic arm that had changeable hand pieces.

This was all moving a little too quickly for John. In no time at all they had somehow managed to get from the Yard to Hackney and were now, by the looks of it, coming to the end of a case. It was pretty unbelievable. It had only taken Sherlock mere minutes to figure this one out and all from a simple note. Not even the real one. A photocopied one. Still, no doubt laid in John's mind. He had full trust in Sherlock. Examining the rest of the van, John pulled out his phone. Apparently Sherlock had already taken the liberty of programming his new number in.

**Van outside, Russian plates, rope inside. Prosthetic hand parts. Looks like the place.**

Almost as soon as he had send it, a reply came:

**GOT THAT. I'M GOING IN. - SH**

The text sent a jolt of fear through John's heart. Why? It wasn't like they were in any danger. The place looked abandoned, no one could stay here for any length of time. Surely this would be a meeting point and there would be another place, a more secure place, to live and keep a hostage. Unless... No, thinking the worst would never work.

John kicked a stone around and waited for Sherlock to call, text or even shout at him. He kept checking his phone every few minutes. Suddenly, it buzzed.

**On our way. 3 squad cars and myself, Anderson and Donovan. - Greg.**

Well, that was good news. Soon there'd be back up. Back up for what exactly, it wasn't going to be an all out shooting, there was one man with one arm, whom had not had the right amount of time to get use to a prosthetic, against a lot of police... It was almost impossible for anyone to survive these odds. He'd just give up; that one armed, ring master who'd gotten in debt.

Sherlock crept through the gloom, as quietly as he could. The darkness seemed to want to cling to him like a child and their safety blanket.

Sherlock shook his head, he was getting tired and that was affecting his concentration. He should've solved this one already. Why were ordinary people so slow?

He heard a muffled outcry come from the far corner of the warehouse, running over in the direction from which it came he began to shine his miniature light around. There, tied to a wooden chair, was Sir Adrian Fulford. Gagged and wearing a blindfold. Not that it made much use in this darkness, Sherlock thought. It was almost pointless. Just as he received a text he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head and everything blurred into darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

100 subs! Wow guys! You are amazing. Seriously.

Sorry to keep you in suspense. It's just every Monday and Tuesday night I stay at my father's and he has no Internet access. Rayne and I still do it via mobiles but it takes us awhile. Anyway here is chapter 9 for you.

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><p>John stared with worry at his mobile. Ten minutes ago he had sent Sherlock another text. One that would have usually gained an answer. For some reason Lestrade was still not there. He was torn between logic and the desir- need to follow Sherlock into battle. Their own form of a war zone. The hunt of adventure. He knew Sherlock was not texting back. He couldn't wait for Lestrade. Not when considering the note. That man. Using better judgement, John decided not to take out his miniature torch. He slowly opened the warehouse door as to not make a sound. Inside was pitch black but trained eyes and ears told him something hid within it. The muffled cries and the angry outbursts of a man confirmed that.<p>

"They sent a dead detective. A gay one at that. More fags to burn, right? More to sizzle."

"Oh how original. You are terribly borin-" The cold reply of Sherlock Holmes was cut short by, to John's ears, what appeared to be a hard punch to the face.

John's heart rages, his eyes narrowed and his breathing sped up. The signs of deep stress and rage. He peered into the darkness and took a shaky step forwards.

"I have time to burn you, poof boy. I want you dead." The man said, his voice was over excited and hurried.

"I shall repeat that again: You are terri-" Another loud smack echoed in the warehouse.

Sherlock was being hit, again and again. Several more blows followed in the darkness.

John slipped forward and peered at the man in the darkness. A meaty man, tall and large, stood in front of Sherlock, who was on the floor with his wrists and feet bound. He was lying prone on the floor. Sherlock's breathing was ragged and harsh, he was unable to move. John's heart ached as he saw Sherlock, so helpless, in front of this bastard.

He wasn't helpless though, was he? He was in his element. He lived for this. The thing John loved about him. Adored... but this? This was painful. "How much did you owe anyway? Ten grand?"

"Why does it fucking matter?" The man roared back, punching Sherlock again. John struggling against the urge to yell out.

"When he shut down your circus you lost everything. It lost you your arm, didn't it?" John saw the man hover his fingers over his right arm. A prosthetic in place of the old one. Tearing his gaze away from his arm, he kicked Sherlock brutally in the stomach. "If you are quite done."

"I were i-"

"Was." Corrected Sherlock. John heard the man snarl.

"I was in a lot of bother and that poofy bastard shut us down. I needed the money. What else could I do? I were broke because of that fag! I needa repay the debt." He shot a glance towards Fulford. Still unharmed, John noted. "I'll just have two fags to burn now."

Sherlock chuckled, a sore sound escaping his lungs. John died inside, again and again, he couldn't do anything though. Not without endangering Sherlock.

"I'm not a fag!" Sherlock spat the last word like it was poisonous. John stepped forwards slightly, as quietly as he could.

"I remember papers! I see you and that doctor bloke from years ago. You're a fag." John's heart fluttered.

"For the last time: I. Am. Not. A. Fag." Hatred lacing each word. "I am gay. Not a bundle of sticks."

"But you still gay. You still sleep wit-" Sherlock's chuckle cut him off.

"You really are so naive." He sat up smiling that cocky beaming grin. "I don't sleep with men."

"But-"

"But I am gay so I must sleep with men? Assumptions. Tsk. Tsk. Did no one ever tell you?" The man looked puzzled; John saw this as a perfect opportunity to move closer. Sherlock still laughing. "Assumptions make you look like an ass."

John watched Sherlock's face as he laughed. There wasn't an ounce of stress on his face; nothing seemed out of place on him.

The kidnapper close, John could reach out and grab him now. A few more seconds.

Now!

John dived forwards, grappling with the one armed man. He took an elbow to the face, a kick to the balls and was thrown to the ground. Gasping for breath, John stood back up and dived on the kidnapper. His arms wrapped around the man's waist and knocked him to the floor. A soft grunt escaped his lips.

Sherlock was standing up now, the makeshift shackles undone and a smug look on his face. John stood up and looked at Sherlock.

"Case closed." John grinned, the adrenaline rushing to his head.

A single gun shot was fired, it echoed in the warehouse.

John fell to his knees.

"SHERLOCK! GET THE FUCK DOWN!" John yelled from the floor. Forced there by the sudden gun fire. Not use to guns for the last two and a half years.

"John. It was me." Or perhaps the person firing the gun.

"WHY THE HEL-"

"He had a knife, John." Looking down, John saw the groaning mess on the floor. Blood oozing from his left arm. He won't be using that any time soon. The doctor inside him kicked in as he went to treat the wound. No matter who it was. Meanwhile Sherlock had already walked over to Sir Fulford and began to untie him.

"What on earth is going on? Where am I? Who are you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as the panicked man rambled on.

"You were obviously kidnapped. Warehouse. Sherlock Holmes."

John pressed down on the poorly dressed wound. It was a pathetic attempt at a bandage but at this moment in time it was the best he could do. Sherlock was helping the judge up, talking to him. Good, that would sort a few things out.

"Sherlock!" John called. "Watch him. I need to call Greg and an ambulance."

"Hurry." Sherlock said quickly, walking over to the kidnapper. "I have another case to solve today."

"Yeah. Yeah... I know." John sighed, his heart still pounding. The echo of the gun still roared in his ears. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Lestrade. The phone was picked up immediately.

"Greg, where the fuck are you?"

"We were misdirected."

"That's a lot of fucking help!" John shouted. He lowered his voice and began again. "We've got the judge, unharmed, and the kidnapper. He's been shot in the left arm, he's bleeding and we need an ambulance crew here as soon as possible or he may bleed out."

"Fine." Lestrade sighed. "We'll be there in a minute. Hold on."

John ended the call and turned back to the three men. Sherlock was watching the one armed man and the judge was standing on his own, examining his surroundings.

"Not even back to life yet and you shoot your first case in the arm."

"Just protecting my friend, John." This sparked something within John's head. The last moment he had seen Sherlock in person. Before the... fall.

**"Alone protects me."**

**"No. Friends protect people!" John snarled back before slamming the door. He was furious. Sherlock Holmes, the changing machine.**

"Right. Erm... thanks." Kneeling back to the one armed man's side, he began to apply pressure to the wound as the wonderful sound of sirens boomed around them.

Suddenly there was a bright light from the door, car headlights streaming through the maw of the warehouse. Lestrade marched in followed by other police men and women, all searching the warehouse for others.

"Over here!" Sherlock called. The first person to arrive was Lestrade. He took in the scene with one glance.

"Damnit, Sherlock." Lestrade sighed. "Why did you shoot?"

"He was about to attack, John. I was protecting John from a violent, bloody death."

"Nice?" Lestrade questionably answered.

"It was actually." Sherlock said, his voice portraying no emotion.

The police crews cleared up and shipped all the evidence off to the places they needed to be shipped to. The ambulance came and went, but left John and Sherlock some shock blankets.

"These things itch." John mumbled from underneath his blanket. He and Sherlock were leaning against Lestrade's car. They were each wearing two shock blankets and John was still cold. He wasn't sure if it was the cool air or the fact he had just been shot at, technically, for the first time for two and half years and it was hard to adapt to.

John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock has stopped dropping the shock blankets to the floor after John explained that they would stop people from talking to him. He simply uttered "If you had told me before." and left the red blankets drape over his shoulders. John watched the police around him run and obey orders, like ants in an over filled nest. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock explaining his actions yet again to Lestrade, his tone brisk and annoyed. No doubt he wanted to move on to bigger and better things.

"Not now. Don't you even think about it." John croaked from his side.

"I have no id-"

"Bollocks, Sherlock. Least give it until a day after the press release." Sherlock silently nodded. Agreeing with John. After the press release would do him. He had only accepted this case, and solved it with such urgency, so he could use Fulford at this press release. What the police would call back up. Apparently that worked for people. Proof. "We'll go home and you are bloody sleeping."

Sherlock giggled. Actually giggled. Like a school girl and it made John's stomach flip. He laughed along with him. Trying to make up for all the lost months. All the lost giggles at murder and crime scenes. He missed them so much. Innocence and fun at the heart of horror. As the laughter died down, a voice called out to them. "You can't laugh here, you two. Go home."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, almost instantly followed by John. Blankets still remaining on their shoulders.

John crashed down into his chair; his back ached from standing up all day and the violent attack from the kidnapper. His leg, though, was fine. He didn't need his walking stick. Not today. That thought made him grin.

It was in this bemused, happy state that the return of Sherlock Holmes had put him in. He leaned back and sighed happily, Sherlock was back and life was good again.

Sherlock was, at that very moment in time, rummaging away in the corner. "Aha!" He pulled something about the size of a laptop out from the pile and... the size of a laptop? Sherlock's laptop was in his room so that was... John's.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, jumping up. "That's my laptop!"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "It is. Excellent deduction, John."

"Well... well, you can't just use it without asking!"

"May I?" Sherlock sighed, tapping his long bony finger on the laptop.

"No!"

"Oh. Here, you take it then." Sherlock sighed, holding out the laptop. "You'll have to do some research for me."

"But your laptop is in your room." John said, grateful he had his laptop back and unopened.

"And you have yours on your lap. That's much easier."

"Your room is just over there!" John groaned, opening his laptop lid. The screen lit up onto the private section of his blog. Thank God Sherlock had not opened that. Just as he closed it down, Sherlock was leaning over him in his usual manner. Before it had meant nothing. Being that close to Sherlock. Heads almost touching. It took every fibre in John's body not to sniff. To smell. To take in the scent he had missed for all those months. So many months.

"Faster, John!" Sherlock yelled with urgency.

"Your brother is still bugging the place, isn't it?" John nervously mumbled.

"Yes, why?"

"No reason." John prayed the cameras were still there. It was bad enough people had talked before... but now? He could have died of embarrassment if this was misheard.

"Again I repeat: Faster, John!" Sherlock spoke with an essence of frustration lining his voice.

"You haven't told me where I am going," John groaned.

"The website, John!"

"What bloody website?"

"The website! My website!" He sounded as if he was answering the most obvious question in the universe.

"And why am I going there?"

"A case, hopefully, John." Sherlock beamed.

"We won't have one yet. You've been in London a day."

"Three weeks actually."

"Three weeks! Wha- never mind. Either way, no one wants to go to you for help yet!" John insisted as he typed in the web address in the top bar. Sherlock's fingers tapping impatiently on the back oh his chair as the page loaded.

There, sure enough, was a notification.

A case.


	10. Chapter 10

10 Chapters. Wow. That went fast and we aren't even half way in, or so we think so far anyway, yet.

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><p><strong>Ah, Mr Holmes, I see you've returned,<strong>

**You have a lesson that's soon to be learned,**

**You cannot win no matter what man it may be, **

**Your destiny is calling with me,**

**Moriarty is dead, you are alive,**

**Are you ready to face the Vicious Five? **

**You could tell my Russian was no poet, **

**There were higher forces and you know it,**

**You think you'll catch me at the final stand,**

**But it is you, Mr Holmes who will die by my hands. **

**P.S. Doctor, doctor, hello to you. It won't be long before your Sherlock is through.**

John glared at the screen as Sherlock laughed. "Why do you attract the bloody psychos?"

"Hush, John. I have a case!" Sherlock jumped into his black chair, curled up his legs and stared into nothingness. Lost within thought.

"No even a bloody case yet." John groaned. Closing the laptop lid he got up, walked over to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He could use a strong cup of tea. If not stronger.

"Why a poem though, Sherlock?" John asked, he poured the boiling water into his mug.

"It's simplicity, John. That's why."

"What?" John leaned on the door frame. He watched Sherlock's hands; they were pressed together as though he was in some sort of meditation.

"No crime is ever original. Even Moriarty had done things that had been done before." Sherlock sighed. "-Crime that uses poem here-"

"Ah." Said John, unsure of what to say.

"Ah indeed. Now, shut up." Sherlock snapped. "I need to think."

Sherlock snapped at him again no less than ten seconds later. Something about John thinking too loudly. He muttered under his breath, closed his laptop and walked towards the door. He looked back to see Sherlock mimicking some person but then waving the persona away. Mind palace. Right. There was no use talking to him for a while.

"I'm going to talk to Mrs Hudson." Sherlock remained in his trance. "Not paying attention to me? Nope. Okay then."

He quietly closed the door to 221B as possible. That way he wouldn't annoy the arrogant sod. The trip down the stairs didn't take him long and soon he was knocking on Mrs Hudson's door. It was time for another talk.

John followed Mrs Hudson into the kitchen where she continued washing her dishes. John did what came as second nature to him and began drying them. He watched the towel in his hands run over the clean dishes.

"Not like that, dear." Mrs Hudson said, "Those tea cups should be looked after. I got them from Sherlock one year, see?"

John looked down at the pretty cups. Porcelain and inlayed with gold, yet they were also coloured a light blue. They were beautiful.

"I don't like to use them." Mrs Hudson sighed. "But Sherlock's brother came over to talk, and I thought it best to be polite."

"Wait, Mycroft came over?" John asked, his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Oh dearie, he does it a lot. He used to come to check on Sherlock. Then he came to make sure you were okay. Even though you weren't... Even though Sherlock wasn't around." She prattled on; John's brain froze for a second. Mycroft cared enough about John to make sure he was alright? What?

"John? John? Hello, love?" Mrs Hudson cooed, looking at John with a concerned expression on her face. "What was it you came down to talk about?"

"Oh, it was..." John started, "It was, well, Sherlock."

"Driving you crazy again?" Mrs Hudson laughed. "He's driving me up the wall and he's only been back a day."

"Hah... yeah." John laughed softly. He'd only been back a day, so why did those two and a half years feel like nothing? What was it about Sherlock Holmes that made John Watson's brain unable to remember anything that didn't involve him? Sherlock had even slipped into the memories John had before they'd met. That was a power that John admired. "You could say that..."

Mrs Hudson smiled kindly at him. It was like in her own little way, she knew. Like she had always known. The first to think they were a couple. John chuckled to himself as he remembered Mrs Turner's married ones. They were a lovely pair. He remembers when they had come round after the funeral. Both also getting the wrong idea. He remembered the look they had given each other when John had told them that they weren't a couple and John wasn't gay. At the time he thought they were wrong. Now, he knew they were wrong. John Watson wasn't gay. That subject he had given a lot of thought. He was Sherlocked.

"Sit down, dearie. You finished drying that ages ago." Looking down he could see she was right. He had been drying a saucer for the last three minutes. Placing it down on the draining board, he walked over to table and sat down. "Now, what's up, dearie?"

"Sherlock. Gone and got another bloody sociopath after him."

"Oh dear. That silly boy." John nodded. Silly indeed.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

"He's going to get you into some trouble some day soon, you know." Mrs Hudson sighed, "Not like he hasn't already."

A small smile crossed John's face. "He's got me into plenty of trouble; I've gotten him out of it all though."

"Ah, that's what friends do." Mrs Hudson laughed. "I'm glad he's back though, aren't you?"

"Yeah," John grinned, "I'm worried about this case though. Someone knows he's not dead, someone knows he's... back in the game."

John's phone vibrated in his pocket again. He ignored it. If it was Harry, she'd leave him alone and call again in the morning.

"Oh dear... Sherlock's never been one for being a people person. I think he's got two types of friends; ones like us and ones that keep him employed." Mrs Hudson sighed. "John, you should keep an eye on that man. Infernal racket or not, he's still the best neighbour I've had in years."

"Yeah," John nodded, "I know. Bloody annoying, but he's amazing."

"That's exactly how I'd describe Sherlock. Now, answer your phone. It's driving me up the wall."

"It's either Lestrade or Harry." John sighed. "I don't want to answer it."

"Do it, love. Otherwise you'll regret it."

"Fine, okay. I'll be back tomorrow, no doubt." John smiled weakly.

"That's great; I'll have a lovely new cake recipe to try out on you." She laughed, "Sherlock wouldn't like it, he'd analyse it and tell me exactly what was in it and then complain that I had done something wrong."

"That's our Sherlock." John nodded. "Completely batshit."

"Now, behave." Mrs Hudson smiled.

John's phone buzzed. He looked down, unknown caller. "I have to take this one, they might not call again." John motioned to his phone. "Sorry."

"Go." Mrs Hudson waved him away. "Take that call and leave me to go to bed."

"Okay. Night."

"Night John." Mrs Hudson said, "Shut the door on your way out."

Shutting the door, he glanced down at his phone again. Still ringing. Sighing, he hit the accept button and put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Good evening, John." The well rounded words of Mycroft Holmes echoed down the receiver.

"Good evening, Mycroft."

"No doubt you are aware my delightful baby brother has returned." John snorted.

"Really, Mycroft? I had no idea." The disapproving sound of Mycroft reached John's ears. It made him smile.

"I heard you both solved a case today. Three hours apparently." John wondered who had told him the exact time. Only five people knew for sure. The other three resided in Scotland Yard.

"Yes. Your brother has got another madman after him. Any more lunatics you've been swapping details about Sherlock for state secrets we should know about?"

"Not the time for jokes, John, but yes I know. It's quite the predicament."

"Hmmm."

"Watch him, John. Watch yourself."

"I think I can handle myself, Mycroft." John sighed.

"Yes but can he?" John looked upwards towards the direction of Sherlock's chair. He didn't know for sure. Still. "Oh and John, do be careful of what you both say. We don't want another 'Faster, John.' experience."

John could feel himself burn with embarrassment. He mumbled an okay. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Good bye, John." Closing him phone, John leaned against the side of wall and took in a deep breath before taking up the slow walk back up towards 221B.

John opened the door quietly, trying not to disturb Sherlock's thoughts. He shut the door slowly and crept into the living room. Sherlock was crouched on his chair, his fingers pressed together and his eyes shut. He looked deep in thought, as though he could deduce the meaning of life if he tried hard enough.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, trying not to shock Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The man stayed still as a statue, clearly too lost in his thoughts - his deductions - to notice John. Good.

John turned to pick up his laptop. He flicked open the lid and read the poem again, it annoyed him. He pondered the lines for a while, the unnervingly still Sherlock still staring into thin air. If he'd been anyone but Sherlock, John would've been worried by now. But this was Sherlock, the one and only. And this special man was under stress to perform tomorrow.

"Sherlock," John said while turning his computer off and setting it aside. "I'm going to bed. Try not to let my sleeping interrupt your thoughts. That would be terrible."

Sherlock didn't reply. In fact, he didn't move an inch.

"Fine." Sighed John, "Be like that."

John flicked off the lights. He walked to his room and shut the door. As he pulled off his clothes, the day's adventure finally took its toll, a sudden wave of exhaustion swept over him. He climbed into bed and within seconds he was asleep.

"John, pass me that pen." Sherlock said, his fingers twitched and he scratched the side of his nose. "And a cup of tea would be nice." He sat waiting and thinking in the darkened room for a long time.

He had been waiting for about two hours now, though he didn't notice the time, and Sherlock was getting impatient. Getting to his feet, he walked into the kitchen and he switched on the kettle. He didn't bother hunting for a pen. It didn't matter any more. He had found it easier to story it within his palace. As the click of the kettle finishing went off he released that he had already replaced the teabags with something else whilst John had been sleeping last night and now he couldn't remember where they were. Searching around, John must be in his room. He'd know where the teabags would be.

Storming into John's room caused a loud crash as the door slammed against the wall. "JOHN! I asked you for a pen!"

A startled John bolted upright in his bed. Dazed and confused. It had been sleeping peacefully for once. It was lovely. Damn Sherlock. His eyes were tired and his voice was heavy with sleepiness. "Sherlock, it's one in the morning."

"And I asked for a pen two hours ago."

"Do you still just carry on talking when I disappear? You have to stop that, Sherlock. Now piss off so I can sleep." John fell back into his pillow.

"I still require a pen."

Reaching over to his bedside cabinet, John picked up the pen handy to him and threw it at Sherlock before grabbing his duvet and burying his face into a wonderfully welcoming pillow.

Sherlock slunk out of the room, fiddling with the pen in his hand. Why did John need to sleep so much? It wasn't... normal for people, was it? He shook his head and walked back into the kitchen. He looked around the cupboards, still unsure of where the teabags were.

"John?" He called. "John, where are the teabags?"

There was no reply from John. Sherlock sat on the edge of the table and thought about it. Where could the teabags actually be? He looked around the kitchen, rummaging through draws and opening cupboards.

"John?" He called again, louder this time. "John. Where are they?"

As John wasn't replying, Sherlock stormed back into his room. The door wide open, as he'd left it.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted. "Where are the teabags?"

John groaned, he dragged his head out of the pillow. "I don't know."

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked again.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I've said that." John mumbled. "Please, fuck off for another four hours and let me sleep."

"I need some tea. I need it now. I'm thirsty and it's distracting." Sherlock complained. "Where are the teabags?"

"I don't fucking know, Sherlock. Piss off. I'm asleep."

Closing John's door, Sherlock began a search of the house. He eventually found the teabags on the bookcase lodged between Crime & Punishment and Emotional Intelligence For Dummies (a sort of joke gift from John). Soon Sherlock had boiled the kettle again, made himself a cup of tea and returned back to his black chair.

Sherlock sat up till dawn. The tea he so desperately needed forgotten.


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry this one took longer than expected. Again, Rayne and I adore the reviews and the subs and the favourites. We really appreciate them and they make us smile a lot.

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><p>Sherlock slammed open the door to John's room. He marched in and pulled the duvet out of John's grasp.<p>

"John, wake up."

"Nuuh." John groaned.

"Get up!" Sherlock said, tweaking the duvet in his hand.

"Nuuh." John scrambled for the duvet, pulled it away from Sherlock and pulled it over his head. He screwed his eyes shut and willed himself to sleep.

"Get out of bed, John."

"Nuuh." John moaned, hiding under his duvet.

"I've made breakfast." Sherlock said slyly, "Full English."

"Sherlock..." Sighed John, "Why today? I need to sleep and... You make breakfast."

"I needed something to take my mind off of the press conference. It didn't work." Sherlock laughed. "I'm still thinking about it."

John dragged himself out of bed, dressed in just his boxers, and stretched. He picked up his dressing robe and wrapped it around himself. As he trailed out of his bedroom and walked into the kitchen, Sherlock followed him.

There, sure enough, was a fully cooked breakfast upon the living room table. Nothing appeared burnt or poisoned. From what John could tell anyway. "And you haven't done anything to it?" Sherlock looked at him sternly. "I only ask because last time you made me something you drugged me and had me hiding in a cage."

After confirming that the meal wasn't going to affect him in any way shape or form, John sat down and tucked in. It was better than he expected. Looking outside he could see that the streets were still dark. The luminous street lights beaming in through the windows. He hadn't glanced at the time yet. Forgetting to even look at his bedside clock before he was forced away from the land of nod. From the kitchen Sherlock somehow answered John's unspoken question. "It's twenty past six if you want to know."

John almost choked on a fried tomato. "Twenty past six? The conference isn't until three!"

"I know," Sherlock strode back into the living room. Taking his usual crouching position on the black chair. "I was bored."

"You're always bored."

"Not always. Not when I have a case." Sherlock said, pacing up and down.

"But you don't have one." John said, pausing. He looked down at his plate, the food wasn't half bad. He looked up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Where did you learn to cook?"

"It's only another science. Vague and uninteresting, but necessary." Sherlock laughed. "Now, finish eating. I've got an idea on this case."

"This case? Oh, the sociopath that likes poetry." John nodded. "What's the idea?"

"Two things, John. Two things. One; never place your opponent in a box without knowing anything about them. Two; shut up and eat. I want to use you after this."

John choked on a sausage. "Wha-"

"Eat!" Sherlock commanded. "Hurry up!"

John stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth as he tried not to blush a deep crimson. Mycroft would've heard that one, and no doubt he would tease John. Sherlock began to pace again, watching his feet as he walked.

"Why don't you eat, Sherlock?"

"Don't eat when I'm working. Digestion slows me down." Sherlock snapped.

"So you've said... but you're not working." John said, waving his fork at Sherlock. "This is a man who needs food and rest." Sherlock shot John the foulest look John had ever seen. "And some nicotine."

"Reminds me," Sherlock jammed his hand into a draw of the desk, "this was a four patch problem. And I had to keep replacing the patches. I need you to get me more." He threw the empty box on the table. "I'll need them before the conference."

"Sherlock, I won't go and buy you nicotine patches."

"Why not?"

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I can't allow you to do that." If looks could kill, John Watson would be a dead man. "Don't give me that look. It was bad enough when you use to use three at a time but four and still no food? No."

Sherlock walked back into the kitchen and began rummaging through the kitchen cupboard. He knew he had another stash somewhere. Hopefully John would not have found them in the last two and a half years. Reaching into the back of the cupboard near the fridge he felt his fingers touching the corner edges of a small cardboard box. Jackpot. "You won't have to go to the shop after all, John."

John rolled his eyes and he looked down at his plate. He only had the mushrooms left. John didn't like mushrooms very much but he felt obligated to eat them. It's not everyday you get cooked a meal by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock pulled out the small box and opened it up. Inside were the precious patches that enabled Sherlock to think without being distracted by his body's needs and wants. Mind over matter. As always. He walked between the living room and the kitchen, pacing up and down.

John watched him pace, while eating the mushrooms. The soft squashing in his mouth made him feel slightly sick, or maybe that was his worry for Sherlock. Sherlock's clothes were ruffled and creased, he had been up all night.

"Sherlock, maybe you should get dressed for this event. It's not like you're going to be allowed to show up in a sheet..." He suppressed a laugh. Sherlock would've killed John several times over with this glare, if look could've killed.

"I wouldn't be in a sheet." Sherlock complained, "This one is of importance."

"And Buckingham Palace wasn't?" John raised an eyebrow.

"I solved the case, didn't I?"

"Technically? I don't think so. Not how they wanted nor did you get what they wanted." Placing his knives and forks down, John stood up and went to the kitchen. Putting his plate into the sink. He could hear Sherlock complaining in the next room.

"I solved it, John."

"After the introduction of a very annoying woman which ended up with her being forced to relocate to America." As he wheeled back into the living room John swore he saw a slight smile play on the detective's lips. It soon disappeared. John thought about the idea of Sherlock knowing she was dead but that wouldn't explain the smile. Not at all. "I'm going to get changed. Considering it's only seven in the bloody morning and you got me up."

Closing the door, John went to his draws and picked out a nice looking jumper he might wear for the day. Hopefully he would get the privacy to get dressed. That was of course after he had had his shower. He chuckled as he remembered the times in which Sherlock had burst into his room many times to find John awkwardly putting on a jumper or getting changed for bed. He really should have invested in a lock.

Sherlock watched John walk out of the room and into his bedroom. His eyes followed the shadows around the flat, nothing was quite as interesting as shadows. In fact, he recalled a few cases that he had needed the shadows to solve. That one with the American had left him no choice but to watch the shadows and follow them. He smiled, cases like that were always fun.

"Sherlock, are you going to shower or can I?" John shouted, pulling Sherlock from his memories.

"You go, you go." Sherlock sighed. He picked up his violin and began to play a merry tune, one of John's favourites of his own compositions. John had noted, one day whilst they were at the theatre, that the stage had lost a fine actor, the law a great lawyer and music a brilliant composer. The complement had made Sherlock smile, it was almost unexpected.

"Fine," John shouted, "but you'll have to shower before the press conference."

"I'll go after you, I want to play." Muttered Sherlock, moving effortlessly into a slow and sombre piece of his creation.

John walked into the bathroom and stripped himself. He climbed into the shower and listened to Sherlock's violin as he washed. His short fingers kept being waved around, like he himself were conducting Sherlock. This is what happened when John listened to Sherlock's playlist over and over. Now, something like the Bee Gees made John feel better but for months on end he listened to Sherlock's classical, orchestral music. Now it was coming back on him.

John almost forgot about washing until the composition ended and Sherlock moved on to a new one. Equally as beautiful. He reached for his usual soap to find it had been replaced to one of lavender. His old one was no where to be found. Not that he minded. His old one was carbolic and very plain. Sherlock's was wonderful.

After washing himself, John climbed out of the shower and reached for his dressing gown. He still used the silly little stripped one that Sherlock had once made fun of. Sherlock once compared him to some form of bee that John couldn't even recall. Not that it mattered on the species. The fact Sherlock knew a lot about bees but not about the universe made him chuckle.

Sherlock had stopped playing by the time John vacated the bathroom. As John made his way to his room he could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Already shirtless and entering the bathroom. Still didn't understand the basic rules on decency, John noted as he shut his door to change.

Sherlock hummed a wonderful number by Bach whilst in the shower. A piece that he had learnt as a small boy. He preferred the soft tones whilst performed on a harpsichord but the violin had always called to him. The soft tunes of Goldberg Variations danced around the room as Sherlock reached for his soap. Obviously used no less than fifteen minutes ago.

As he reached for a towel, the soft sounds still humming from his lips, he realised how messy John still was. Things were disorganised and the towels in a horrible array. It wasn't helping. The conference meant nothing to Sherlock. It was coincidental but the mess John was producing wasn't helping his thought process.

"John, you need to tidy up." Sherlock said as he padded out of the bathroom. His hair was slicked back and still dripping wet. He wore nothing but a single towel wrapped around his waist.

"I would," John said opening his bedroom door. "But I'm not mental."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John was wearing a pale blue Paul Smith shirt and a pair of light grey suit trousers. He carried a light grey suit jacket with pink lining. It was a smart attire, one that - if it had been on anyone but the man that stood next to an almost naked Sherlock Holmes would've - looked good. Sherlock smiled and quickly walked into his room.

"I'm not mental either." John heard Sherlock mutter. "I was tested."

"Did your mother get you tested?" John giggled.

Sherlock stuck his head out of his room. "No, she didn't care. Mycroft had me tested to see if I was actually... mentally deficient."

"And you weren't." John nodded. "Makes sense."

"I wasn't. I'm only a highly functioning sociopath." Sherlock nodded before withdrawing his head.

"Perfect sense." John sighed before collapsing into his chair.

"What happened to that jumper you had picked out?" Sherlock yelled out causing John to stare at his room in worry. Sherlock had been in his room. Again. Whilst John showered. What if he had seen the scarf by the bed? It was still there when John had gotten changed. Hopefully Sherlock had missed this one thing.

"Erm. I thought I'd better dress smart!" John called back. "You know? Press and everything." John twiddled his thumbs in the silence that followed. Should he go change? Did he not look right?

Unsure what to do with himself, John picked up his laptop and opened the lid. He had a wonderful idea. If he did this correctly then his blog would update as soon as the press release was over. If not then nobody would understand until afterwards. Either way it didn't matter. He tapped four simple words on his laptop before clicking a button that would delay the post and shutting the laptop lid. To him those four words were simple and yet perfect.

**I told you so. **

John smiled to himself as he waited for Sherlock to get ready.


	12. Chapter 12

Sorry this one took so long. I have been having some personal problems and then we have been on and off writing this. Here it is though. My apologises more than anything.

Also I swear Rayne just wants to make all the Sherlock jokes. They keep making me crack up.

* * *

><p>Opening his wardrobe, Sherlock was pleased that John, nor Mrs Hudson for that fact, had not touched his clothing. His sock index was perfectly in order. Running his fingers along his shirts he soon stopped on his favourite deep purple one. It did wonders for his skin colour. Something he thought the press would enjoy. Not that that bothered him. The newspapers and TV stations would just be a quick and simple way of getting word spread quicker. That way he would be able to continue taking on cases soon after. Just like the good old days.<p>

He picked out a fitting black suit. To be fair, he really only liked black suits. It was whilst he was picking these out that he saw the deerstalker in the corner. Picking up it, he tore open his door, not even in his towel, and threw the deerstalker at John's head. "Burn that useless excuse of a hat."

Upon shutting his door, he dressed quickly and threw his towel into the washing basket still located at the end of his room. Glad to know nothing had changed. Even though he had yet to sleep in his bed, he noticed that the sheets had been changed. By the looks of it numerous times. Mrs Hudson's doing by the looks of the corners.

Sherlock glided out of his room, sweeping past John. The patches on his arm were beginning to kick in. Good, this news conference was an annoying inconvenience.

"Sherlock," John looked up from his paper, "look."

He pointed to a small column, 'Teacher Needed'. The advertisement was about a lecturer needed to teach elementary science to a group of posh old men.

"Why don't you apply?" John asked, "You'd be a good teacher. It might even stop you from being bored."

"Elementary, my dear Watson." Sherlock giggled at his own joke, "It'd bore me to tears. AND I would never be able to pursue the criminals in my cases."

"Ah," nodded John, "okay."

"What are you doing today?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Waiting for the press conference. And then going." John shrugged, "What have you got planned?"

"Experiments. I need to test some theories I have." Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. "I might be able to use them later on."

"I'll know to avoid the kitchen. Don't burn the ceiling. I only just got that blasted black mark off of it." Leaning into the kitchen Sherlock saw that the mark had indeed disappeared. He wondered how long the experiments would take him. It was barely eight in the morning and they were both prepared. Maybe if he bothered he would be able to go about the street and see what happened to his 'delightful' neighbourghs. Didn't matter but it gave him something to do at least.

"We need milk."

"And? You know where the shop is. What happened to it anyway? You got some the other day." John complained. It was nice he bought the milk. Even if it was just once.

"Remedy."

"What?" John replied, giving one of hia signature facial expressions.

"For the brusies. Own remedy. Works a treat." John groaned, picking up his wallet.

"Fine. I'll be five minutes."

John shut the door to 221B Baker Street and walked out into the cold. He shrunk into his jacket as the air attacking his bare skin. He walked quickly down the road into a small Tesco Metro. There was a queue. John sighed and picked up two pints of semi-skimmed milk. He joined the queue and waited for the next till to become available.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He thought for a second before jumping up and running around the room. He picked up several packets, jars and vials. He placed them on the living room table and laughed to himself. John was going to go ballistic if this went right.

John's face when he got ballistic was rather amusing. His brow frowned and the lines around his eyes moved in the most entertaining manner. Normally other people getting infuriated bored him easily but John always had a different array of reactions. Recently they had been more tame. Disappointing. Hopefully this one would do to cause a decent sized yell before three o'clock. Sending John, pointlessly, to the shops was stage one. Stage two was knowing, perfectly well, John still had issues with the self checkout and refused to use the human run checkout. Third stage was blowing up the kitchen. Anything for a bit of excitement. Sherlock abhorred being bored. It was almost repulsing.

Manoeuvring his way around the flat, he began to organise the things he had not yet gotten the chance to. Firstly, he started by bringing his skull in from his room and placed it neatly on the end of the fireplace. He ran his finger along the end of the Mandible bone in a soft action. As if he was able to deduce the entire workings of 221B since his absence just by a momentary glance. Although the skull did not talk to him, he seemed to have required his information and went about in search for one of his devices until his eyes drew attention to the wall. Although it had lost two of the original bullet holes due to a butch plastering job, it had gained several more already. The angle suggested a man much smaller build with him and based by their position, the aim was perfect. John. For sure. It did not matter. He needed to regain his wall. However he was unsure where his pistol was held.

So the hunt began for the desired pistol. Judging by the holes, John had not used his own gun. He had used Sherlock's. The intend it made confirmed that. Just another one of his experiments. Seeing as his gun was not kept in the usual place, nor was it laying around the flat, Sherlock dove into John's room.

By the time he finished his whirlwind tour of it, the room was fully searched and the results unfruitful; save the discovery of several magazines and DVDs all which had women on the front. Sherlock took a peak into one magazine, inside were articles on various sports and pictures of women that were arranged in various positions. All of whom were naked.

"John," Sherlock muttered to himself, "this is not good reading."

He put the magazines back, along with the DVDs, and walked out of the room. The blue scarf had once again missed his glare. He would just have to find something else to entertain himself.

John walked down the road, the human traffic around him battering him as he struggled to get back to the flat. There were a few cars on the road, some looked like they weren't sure where to go. Must be a diversion, John reasoned. He turned the corner and in front of him stood a police block, people stood in small groups outside of it. There was a low buzz as people spoke quietly, guessing what had happened - their wild theories nothing like the truth - and speculating what would happen next.

John searched the crowd for the familiar face, where was he? John looked at the men inside the block; police and firefighters. An elderly woman was being given a blanket and a young police woman was talking to her. John stepped forwards and started towards Mrs Hudson, intent on learning what had happened to Sherlock.

"Excuse me," came a voice, "you can't pass here."

"I live here." John said, looking the man in the face. Brown hair, brown eyes, black moustache, brown, bushy eyebrows, youngish - thirty something at the most - and pale.

"Hmm..." The man nodded John through. "Go."

John stepped forwards and was suddenly within ear shot of Mrs Hudson's conversation.

"It will be nothing, dear. Nothing he can't handle himself. Ooh he best not have burnt my ceiling again." John almost ran over to her. Soon as she saw John she began muttering under breath and shaking her head. "I tried to tell them, John."

"What's he bloody do- Where is he?" John couldn't decide what was the more important question. How he had decided to wreck the flat or where he actually was. Currently, either would satisfy him.

"Still inside, dear. He refuses to move." Before Mrs Hudson got a chance to continue, John was darting past the police officers and up to 221B. He ignored the yells and the attempts to pull him back. He'd get up to that flat and find Sherlock and if he was still alive he'd bloody strangle him.

Stepping through his front door, he saw Sherlock perched inconveniently on his black chair. He was yelling orders at the fire crew and telling them about the many faults they had apparently committed. Not wanting to turn around, John realised the fire had been in the kitchen. Though, by the jars on the table, it could have easily been the living room. The window was ajar for ventilation, he presumed. One of the fire men was staring down at Sherlock, giving him a lecture about causing chemical fires in a kitchen. It laid on deaf ears, John was certain.

The man turned around and eyed John, who mumbled something about living here too. The man looked at him with a look that could have resembled pity, and for a moment John didn't blame him. "I'm afraid you'll be needing a new refrigerator," He stared again at Sherlock. "And a new kitchen table."

John glared at the man sitting in the black chair. He had already stopped hurling criticism at the fire crew and had gone back to one of books. By the look of the cover, to John, it was Crime And Punishment. "Sherlock! What on earth were you doing?"

"Experiment. Nothing I couldn't handle. Mrs Tyler? Turner? rang the fire department." His voice laced with fury. John wanted to strangle him.

"I go for five minut-"

"Ten. You had a row with," Sherlock glanced over at John. His hands mostly. "Ah. The machine this time."

John shoved his hands behind his back. This wasn't the time for arguing. Some of the fire crew were still there. "Wh-" John started. Anger making it a struggle to communicate. "Why?"

"Bored, John." Sherlock placed his book down and strolled over to the window. "I also calculated that by two o'clock you, Mrs Hudson and I shall be the only ones left. The fire department would disappear. After that it would only be a matter of occupying myself with an experiment before half past when we would leave for the Yard."

Unable to speak, John just stood there with his mouth slightly open and eyes closed. Lines of frustration etched on his head. He slowly walked over to his chair, dropped the bag he had been holding and slumped into the soft armrest. Welcoming the way it moulded to his back.

Without a single doubt, Sherlock Holmes had most certainly returned to Baker Street.

The fire crew now gone, Sherlock sat in his chair, John looked up from his laptop occasionally to make sure Sherlock was still there. Yeah, he was. A smug smile on his face at times or, at others, an angry frown. Nothing on Sherlock Holmes' face could be anything but perfect, John decided. A smile crossed John's face, despite the stress of today so far.

Sherlock looked at John, who was now looking at his laptop.

"John," he said, "please don't look at me like I'm going to blow everything up."

"I-" John was taken aback. "I never thought you would." He looked up, a wrinkle formed between his brows, and watched Sherlock carefully.

"Good." Sherlock nodded. "Good. What's the time?"

"Um... It's almost- It is- it's-" John stuttered, unsure of the time himself. "Two."

"Two?" Sherlock laughed, "Then I shall begin my experiments."

"Just be careful." John sighed. "I don't want to see another fireman for a few weeks."

"Can't promise anything, John."

"Sherlock, they only left fifteen minutes ago."

"So?"

"Just... I give up. You're buying the table and fridge, by the way. They lasted three years without you." John couldn't bare to look at the kitchen and kept his gaze set on the laptop screen. "And no experiments in the kitchen."

Sherlock produced a sound that almost signified a groan. As if no experiments in the kitchen was the end of the world. "Well I can't work at the kitchen table."

"And who is to blame for that?" Sherlock waved the pathetic question away with a flick of his hand and jumped up back out of his seat and into the kitchen.

John sighed. Hopefully the next half an hour would fly by.


	13. Chapter 13

I have apologise for the lateness of this chapter. It has nothing to do with Rayne. Entirely my fault.

On Tuesday I saw a very dear little friend of mine get hit by bus and since then she has been, and still is, in a coma. Even though I have shown no apparent since of grief or struggle I have been unable to function correctly and therefore unable to write. I even made Rayne start a chapter before she was due because I couldn't even do it.

The worst is that I had to inform the mother about the accident and that is what I am trying to deal with.

Again, I apologise. Here it is anyway. Also, I'd just like to take this time to thank Rayne for dealing with me this week, supporting me and being patient.

* * *

><p>"Time to go, Sherlock." John said, putting his laptop down and standing up. He turned around and saw Sherlock crouching in his own black chair. He was resting his elbows on his knees and had perched his nose on his clasped hands. He looked up at John and raised an eyebrow.<p>

"Let's go then." He nodded. John stretched and felt his back click. Picking up his coat, he walked out of the room. Sherlock didn't follow.

John turned back and looked at Sherlock, who hadn't moved.

"Coming?"

"In a second." Sherlock said. He brushed his hair back from his face and looked at his feet. "John, do you think this is the right thing to do?"

Was this Sherlock Holmes showing doubt? Was he... human? John shook his head to dispel the thoughts.

"Yes, it is." He nodded. "It'll get you cases..."

"Cases!" Sherlock shouted, his old self coming back now, "I knew there was a reason I'd put up with this! Cases! I miss my cases, even the boring ones."

"Boring ones?"

"The simple ones. The big fancy crimes with the oddities that make them oh so simple to solve! I miss them, John! I really do! But I couldn't put up with the constant small cases, those rather singular crimes that have very little reason to have been committed."

"Ah... kay." John nodded. "Let's go get you some then?"

"Cases!" Sherlock grinned, his eyes sparkled. "Cases are good."

"I'll call the cab..." John sighed.

Walking into the hallway, John left out yet another sigh. Sherlock was acting rather childishly. Though John knew that a few days without sleep did that to Sherlock. He could account for two days but he was not sure before that. He had never got around to mentally scaling up a graph. The corner of John's lip slightly raised, he'd have to make one.

John wondered why they even bothered to use cabs any longer. Even after everything that had happened he still had faith in them. Those three years he had almost depended on them. Especially with his leg. That and they had reminded him of Sherlock. Now he thought about the serial killer cab driver he had shot and Moriarty. How delightful. That and London was always so bloody packed. Shaking the thoughts away in his head, John held the phone to his ear and spoke to the man on the other line.

Sherlock reached into the depths of his wardrobe. His fingers brushing against the silky sea beneath them. Moulding around his hand almost, as if they were him in some weird sense. It didn't take long before his fingers brushed up against the different material at the back. Using one hand he managed to unhook it from the hanger, he began to drag it through the depths of the underworld of clothes. Soon, in all it's glory, was a coat. His coat. Or well one of them. Of course he had more than one. Slowly putting one arm after another, it felt like home. He had put it off yesterday and it was for the best. This was the day Sherlock Holmes rose from the dead and he would return in the exact same way he had left it.

The black cab pulled up outside the front door, waiting for Sherlock and John. The driver hummed the last song he'd heard in the morning before he left for work and tapped on the steering wheel. His brown hair fell over his eyes. He rubbed his forehead and swept the hair out of the way. Suddenly there was a tall, thin man sitting in the back seat. Another man was climbing in. this one was shorter and more familiar to the cabbie. This was the man that he had carried around for the best part of three years. Always from this address to various others.

John nodded to the cabbie and turned to Sherlock.

"Remember-" John began.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, looking out of the window.

"Remember-"

"Yes."

"Remember what they told you. Don't try to be clever. And please just keep it simple and brief."

Sherlock turned to John and tilted his head slightly. "I can't help but feel that you and I have done this before."

John smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked out of the window and watched the world fly past.

The driver was in his usual silence as was Sherlock, as the taxi took up towards the Yard. A little traffic on the roads but nothing that Bernard couldn't get them through, thought John. He liked Bernard whom had become a good person to talk to. The company John used only sent the one driver now. John didn't know why but at least the man had been at least another familiar face over the years.

Sherlock was unsurprisingly quiet in the taxi again, staring out of his window. This silence soon broke as the taxi drew up to outside Scotland yard. "Here, Bernard. Keep the change."

"You kno-"

"Obviously, John." John looked at him in disbelief and they jumped out of the taxi. Bernard driving away. "Same taxi driver for three years? Any simpleton could spot that."

"Yes but-"

"Stop talking, I need to think before the conference."

Sherlock stalked off, turning up his collar up to his cheekbones. John trailed after him, somewhat like a lost puppy. John's eyes followed the flow of Sherlock's coat, the sweep of his arms as he walked across the pavement. He realised, yet again, how much he missed Sherlock Holmes when he was gone.

Sherlock pushed open the doors of the large building in front of him. His sharp steps were followed by John's slightly scuffled ones. Sherlock's eyes took in the faces of everyone in the room. He walked past the receptionist's desk.

"Um... excuse me? Excuse me, Sir?" She called, trying to attract his attention. He walked past her, absent mindedly. John grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve and dragged him back to the receptionist.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." John said to her, trying to smooth out any problems Sherlock may have caused.

"Okay." She laughed softly.

"Well done, Vanessa." Sherlock said blankly as he stared in the direction of the conference room.

"What?" The receptionist looked at Sherlock and in some sort of silent conversation she understood what she was on about and swiftly nodded her head. "Thank you. Could you just wait over there please, Sirs?"

John dragged Sherlock off to the side, giving him a questioning glare. "Obvious, isn't it? She just left her partner."

"Go on. Amaze me." John groaned. He never did stop.

"Firstly on her cheek was dried tears. Her eyes, though not puffy, were red around the rims. Been crying during her lunch break, make-up retouched. Her hair had been re-fixed during lunch too.

"If you looked at her clothing, she was trying too hard for a secretary job. Though not to impress somebody. She would have looked differently otherwise. More presentable. No, that suit jacket she was wearing was covering something. If you noticed her wrist, which I don't think you did, you would have seen the edges of bruises. One she was trying to cover on her neck too. Some where old. Her ring finger had the outline of a ring that had been removed.

"So bruises? Can't have been an accident. Not with the locations. No, this was an attack. Not a one off. The old bruises said that. It linked in with the ring and the crying. Obviously an abusive partner.

"She has just left her abusive partner and is, by her standards and dress code, living with her mother for awhile. She still continues to work though but the timid voice shows how she feels reluctant to be there. Probably the situation."

"But how did yo-"

"How did I know her name was Vanessa? Her name tag, John." Sherlock coiled back onto a chair in the lobby. A smug look plastered to his face.

John tapped his knee, waiting for someone to collect them. Sherlock made not a sound, his eyes remained flickering back and forth across the room, taking everything in.

Sherlock watched everyone closely, noticing everything that they tried to hide. He noticed what the woman over there had for lunch, the last time that man had shaved, the type of dog that woman had, that man's wife was cheating on him with his friend. All these pointless bits of trivia, but he could grasp anything that he wanted. His eyes darted to John. He noticed the bags under John's eyes, the bitten nails, the shuffling, the sighing, but he could grasp why John was showing all these signs of fear, worry, anger and - oddly - excitement.

"Sirs?" Vanessa called, "Detective Inspector Lestrade will be here to take you to his office any minute."

Sherlock nodded and John thanked the woman.

"Annoying, aren't they?" Sherlock said quietly.

"Who?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Normal people."

"Because you insist on being abnormal." John rolled his eyes as a tapping sound echoed through the lobby. Turning around, John saw Lestrade approaching the both of them. An apparent look of sleep deprivation made up on his face. "Afternoon, Greg."

"Afternoon, John. Sherlock." Sherlock studied over Lestrade. Spotting the recently changed shirt and shaved face, stains on the hands from grease. He also noticed the crease in the trousers, still the same ones then from the day before, and the tie was the one he kept in his draw for best occasions.

"Inspector."

"Right, I don't think I need to tell you but don't get cocky. They don't know why they are bloody here yet and they haven't seen you yet. Hard I tell you after the last few days but myself and somebody else have been working on that." Lestrade let out a long sigh. "Not that you make that easy."

John couldn't resist a small chuckle. Indeed, Sherlock couldn't make anything easy. It wasn't in his nature. "No. He wouldn't, would he?"

"Hmm. Right, Sherlock, you are going to do this my way or no way at all. You're lucky you already have some people on your side. First I am going to talk to the press and then on my cue you will enter. You will not bloody stress enough the importance of you keeping your mouth shut at times. The Daily Mail and the Sun are here and you know what they are fucking like."

John choked on a sudden laugh. The Sun and The Daily Mail where here? Oh dear God, Sherlock was in trouble. But so was John, the "confirmed bachelor" that was constantly seen with Sherlock. What was he going to have to put up with?

"I can't promise anything." Sherlock muttered. John shot a look at Lestrade, a Sherlock-Will-Cause-Trouble-Today look. Lestrade sighed and spun on his heel.

"Come on, John. Sherlock."

John heaved himself up and walked swiftly after Greg. Sherlock followed slowly.

"Stay here." Lestrade smiled tensely. "You too, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded as Lestrade walked into the room. There was a lull in the hushed murmurs from the room full of journalists. Soon there were a few loud voices calling out, but they were hushed by the replies from Lestrade.

They had been standing outside for about ten minutes when Sherlock looked at his watch.

"Shall we make an entrance?" He smiled.

"No, no... Sherlock!" John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's shirt cuffs. Too late.

"...Our investigation shows that Sherlock Holmes was innocent of all charges against him. Including that of the case of Richard Brooke who was indeed Moriaty and -" Lestrade was talking as the door swung open.

"And I'm not dead." Sherlock grinned, walking into the room. There was a sudden silence, no one spoke. Sherlock walked up to the table next to Lestrade. "Any questions?"

"Sherlock..." John groaned, awkwardly standing in the doorway.

Within seconds a sea of hands had shot up, straining. Ready to bombard the detective, and his companion, with questions. John saw a few eyes stare at him as he took the seat readily prepared for himself. Sherlock seated next to him.

"Let the grilling begin!" Sherlock beamed as he pointed to a very flustered brunette on the front row who was almost levitating out of her seat by the way her arm was up in the air.


	14. Chapter 14

Another chapter for you. They are becoming slightly more regular now I have got my head back together. Thanks for understanding.

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><p>"Mr Holmes! MR HOLMES! Daily Mail! How did you do it?" An annoying high pitched woman yelled causing Sherlock to cringe slightly so only John could see.<p>

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock smirked before pointing to another person.

"Where 'ave you been then these three years?"

"Traveling. Not all pleasure I assure you. Next." John sighed. Sherlock was being very difficult and these blasted reporters will not be satisfied. "Yes, the gentleman in the red who broke up with his wife this morning?"

The man stared at him in wonder momentarily before he suddenly realised his situation. "This one's for Doctor Watson, I'm 'fraid, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock shot John a glance, asking John if he was okay with this. John nodded. If the last few years hadn't been enough already. "Alright, go ahead."

"Doctor Watson, even though Mr Holmes was gone you never thought to move on? Still the bachelor?"

John's face flushed. That was none of their business. "I have no clue what you mean by moving on. I had numerous dates with a few ladies but I just haven't found one that has caught my eye yet. I don't see why this is of any importance."

"Oh, no reason, Doctor. Our readers like this sorta thing." With that the man scribbled down in his notebook before getting out his phone, John glanced at Sherlock, who had continued to answer some questions from the corner of his eye. He soon noticed the gentleman had raised his hand again.

"Well now," Sherlock announced not soon after. "You people are beginning to bore me. I'll leave you in the... capable hands of Scotland Yard to answer any questions you may have. It is ever so trivial."

Sherlock pushed himself up from the seat and caught John's collar, dragging him out of the room. There was an uproar of questions as the tall detective and his shorter companion exited the room.

Lestrade sighed as he watched them leaving. He would have to call Mycroft about this.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time. We will answer no more questions on the matter." He announced, standing up and following Sherlock and John. He reached the door, only to find that they'd disappeared already.

John followed Sherlock closely, not knowing the roads and fearing that he might get lost.

"Where are we going?" He asked, his head spinning. He was sure that Sherlock had just dragged him out of an interview where someone had asked him if he'd moved on from Sherlock. What did that mean? Did Sherlock understand that he was uncomfortable there? Was it really something or... Or was John over analysing?

"We're going to lunch." Sherlock said simply. "I know a little pub, The Clarence."

"Okay." John nodded, following Sherlock. "I suppose you won't be eating?"

"Of course not, John." Sherlock laughed. "I'm on a case."

A case? What case? John stopped walking for a second. Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

"Come on, John."

"Fine... Yeah, okay." John said, still unable to focus properly.

"Stop panicking, John. We're only going down the road. You know this one." Sherlock called back as John tried to keep up. Before long they stopped outside a bricked building near some traffic lights. There was outside seating though obviously they weren't going to sit there as there was a very loud, obnoxious man yelling at passes by. His blue shirt looked stained, Sherlock glared at him.

John looked up at the dark green shop sign with wonderfully gold lettering. Apparently the place was over a hundred years old. It looked it too. With the windows decorated such and the old fashioned lamps hanging. John noticed the door was a dark wood as he followed Sherlock in. Inside looked like it must be a busy place normally. However today it looked rather empty. Sherlock seated himself in a far off corner, John followed suit. "You want a drink, Sherlock?"

"Mhm. They do a lovely ale. Though I already took the liberty of ordering our drinks." He stated as he looked at a menu decorating the table, pointing towards the bar.

"You what? But you came and sat down straight away!" John exclaimed, glancing towards the bar to see a man approaching them with two drinks in hand.

"I have my methods, John."

"'Ere ye go, Mr Holmes, and thanks again for ye 'elp." The man beamed at him. "I'll leave ye to ye date then."

"I'm not his d-" Tried to yell out before turning back to his drink. "Oh sod it. They never listen."

John settled into his seat and picked up his glass. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking at various people in the pub. John didn't even have to follow Sherlock's eyes to know what he was looking at. The man and woman in the corner, their hands touching across the table. John had noticed them when he walked in, with a pang of jealousy.

After a silence John cleared his throat.

"So, what was that about in the... er... conference?" John stumbled over his words. "It's just that it didn't seem... It didn't seem like you."

"Didn't seem like... me?" Sherlock asked, surprised. "I am me so everything I do must seem like me."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock." John sighed and scratched his chin.

"You didn't shave properly this morning." Sherlock noticed.

"Stop it and answer me, Sherlock."

"I wanted to leave." Sherlock nodded, he sipped at his drink. "Everyone annoyed me."

"I suppose too much thinking for one room." John laughed to himself. He was probably correct. "Anyway, why this pub?"

"On our way out of Scotland Yard yesterday somebody slipped me a note. It informed me that he required my help. It gave a very brief description of what the case would involve and that is why we are here now, John." John scanned the room again. This time the lovers were locked at the lips, as if they required one another for oxygen. He couldn't help but let out a groan before tearing his glance away. Sherlock was turned around, staring intently at the door, giving John the perfect opportunity to study Sherlock over.

He had shaved perfectly this morning. Like he always did. He had used something in his hair. Obviously chosen his shirt with care, it was the only way Sherlock knew how. They were all the same really anyway. Minus the costumes. John had looked through them once. Why Sherlock needed or even owned a French Maid's outfit is beyond him. Though he had no doubt that the detective could pass for a female if needs be. He had to admit, that wasn't the weirdest thing he had discovered in Sherlock's wardrobe but he didn't plan to carry on searching after he had found the maid's outfit.

That neck though. By God that neck. John wanted to reach and stroke it. To see if he could feel Sherlock's heart beat. He couldn't do that though. It wouldn't be allowed. Also he thought Sherlock might think he had cracked and get him admitted somewhere. That thought had him laughing. Sherlock, admitting HIM, John Watson, into a mental hospital. Something wouldn't seem right.

The laughter caused Sherlock to turn around and scan over John.

John's stubble was uneven, although, Sherlock reasoned, only he or Mycroft would notice that. His tie was hanging slightly to one side and his cuffs had been done up in a hurry. His hair had been swept through with only his right hand, there was a definite line in the way John's hair stood. All these things were comfortable, normal. Good old, dependable John.

Sherlock couldn't work out what was nagging away at the back of his mind, it annoyed him intensely. But he would wait and, like all things that had a mysterious nature, he would unravel it, learns the secrets it kept.

"What's so funny?" He asked, noticing the colour of the bags under John's eyes. He was tired, such a human thing.

"No- nothing." John said, muffling his laughter. John picked up his beer and downed what was left in one gulp. "Can I get another?"

"As long as you're fit to run after it." Sherlock nodded, noting the tone in John's voice, the pleading quality. What was John drinking for? To escape, like so many before him? To have fun? Unthinkable! They were on a case! To forget? But what would John need to forget?

Sherlock shook his head and raised his hand, the bar keeper noticed and pulled another pint. He bought it over to John, who nodded and thanked him. "Will ye be needing 'elp today, Mr Holmes?"

"No, thank you. Although, I might require a room for myself, John and the young man that has just sat down four tables from the bar."

The bar keeper looked at Sherlock momentarily then at John and then at the young man. He nodded and walked up to the bar to talk to somebody. John ran his right palm down the front of his face. This would not look good and, oblivious as ever, Sherlock was unaware of what the bar keeper had misconstrued.

John nursed his second pint until, half way down, he decided he had had enough. No sooner had he mentally decided this did Sherlock stand up and walk to the side of the bar where a door stood. The young man quickly followed.

John's face flushed a violent pink as he stood up and followed Sherlock and the young man. His eyes caught the bar keeper, who winked at him. "No, it's not like that." John sighed, they never listened.

Sherlock was standing by the window, the young man perched on a chair by the fireplace and John sat curtly on the bed. He was closest to the door.

John's gaze switched repeatedly between the man and Sherlock. The man was dressed in, what appeared to be an expensive, three piece suit. His hair was gelled in place and he had an expensive looking watch on. John noticed the man's cufflinks and realised he had seen them on somebody else before. "How's Mycroft then?"

Sherlock span round to look at John, a mixture of surprise and, maybe, joy on his face. "The cufflinks, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced at the man and smiled. "Well done, John."

"He's tolerable. How did you know I was acquainted with Mycroft?"

"The suit you are wearing in hand tailored, Italian by the looked of the material. Your watch alone is thirteen thousand pounds. Your cufflinks were a special gift from that blasted club when you joined. The same blasted club that my dearest brother attends with all his upper class, snobby friends. As my friend her obviously noticed."

"Your brother said you were both good, Mr Holmes," Sherlock snorted slightly at the understatement. "I didn't realise how good."

John rubbed his sweaty palms on his knees as Sherlock paced around the room. He felt the fabric under his hands and it calmed him. This habit was one he'd developed over the three years that Sherlock was gone, from rubbing Sherlock's scarf which he kept balanced on his knees.

"What are we here for exactly?" Sherlock's voice was a low growl. His hair was falling over his eyes, he brushed it back and turned to the man in front of John, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Well, you're here for..." The man trailed off. "I need to introduce myself, I'm James."

"Bond?" John laughed. Sherlock spun his back to the man and began pacing again. His hands clasped behind his back. He wanted to get this meeting over and done with. He wanted the chase, the hunt. He wanted something that would stop this dull, boring, routine's existence.

"Yes." Said James. "It's the name you'll know me by until your brother," he waved at Sherlock, "says otherwise."

"Smart..." John nodded, watching Sherlock's long strides as he though. Sherlock stood still and looked at 'James' with a sudden expression of glee.

"You're Penber." He grinned, "Samuel Penber."

'James' reeled back in surprise. His slick appearance falling away for a split second. "Your brother did that to me too. Told me to expect it."

"Shaken but not stirred." John muttered. Sherlock chuckled whilst Samuel shot him a filthy look.

"You didn't answer me." Sherlock sobered up. "Why are we here?"

"You tell me." Samuel leaned back in his chair and watched Sherlock with cold, calculating eyes. "And explain how you worked out who I am."

"Simple," Sherlock flicked his hand at Samuel. "We met shortly while you were Mycroft's latest flame."


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks for being patient, guys. This would have been up sooner but Fanfic decided to crash or something so I couldn't log in. Better late than never.

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><p>John choked on the air once again causing Sherlock to sigh. "Will you stop choking on things, John? It is starting to annoy me."<p>

John mumbled an apology as Samuel squirmed a little. Straightening a little, he tried to regain composer before speaking again. "You noticed that then?"

"Who wouldn't?" Sherlock smirked, "It was blatantly obvious. My brother being his usual self. Not that mattered. How long did you last then? Two months?"

Samuel stared coldly at Sherlock. Like his glare could kill. "Three, exactly."

"Ah yes. Explains the watch. Pity you didn't last four. He gives them a helicopter then."

"Yes but I am afraid your brother moved on to his new... toy." Samuel walked over to the window, looking down at the busy street below. "Seven months now apparently."

"Ooo a new record. I should congratulate him." Sherlock began pacing around the room impatiently. This was getting rather tiresome.

"The case," his voice lined with bitterness. "Mr Holmes."

"The case." Sherlock mumbled, "Is a delicate one. Namely, the nature of what you left in the place you left it in."

John sat, a confused look on his face, and watched Sherlock. "John, take that look off your face."

John did his best to try and straighten out his face. "How...?"

"How? Well, he is Samuel Penber, high up in governmental politics. That's how brother dearest likes them. And, with the pleasure of working with my brother comes certain secret information."

He looked and Samuel, who nodded in agreement. "And this information was lost, was it not?"

Samuel nodded again. "Now, as for the place it was lost in... I see no sign of him being a drunkard. Nor a... Junkie. So the question is: where did you leave this information? I assume it was not on the train, or else you would have it back. And it was not taken from you forcefully because you would then have half the army looking for it. Instead, you have come to me. Where did you leave it, Mr Penber?"

John switched his gaze to Samuel, who was looking rather sheepish. "I- I er... I left them at a... Um..."

"A whore house? A drug den? Come, quick tell us!" Sherlock snapped. John raised an eyebrow but said nothing; he was as interested as the bad tempered genius who stood before him.

"I left them at a party..." Samuel mumbled. "I mean, I didn't leave them. I just didn't get home with them."

"Um... Why didn't you jus-"

"No John, I'll ask that. Why didn't you just turn around and go back?"

"I was going to ask why he didn't tell Mycroft and why he needs us but... Yeah, that's a better question." John nodded.

"Well that's obvious. You never met Kyle, did you, John? Though I suppose no one will ever meet Kyle again." John shuffled awkwardly on the bed. He thought about the secrets he had told. The ones he could. "Isn't that right, Samuel?"

Samuel let out a heavy sigh. "No one was meant to know about that."

"I didn't have to know, I noticed. This case, anyway, what exactly happened? I need details." Sherlock sat down on the bed and crossed his legs. Impatiently waiting for the story to unfold.

"I was at a party when this... Gentleman approached me. He must have drugged me because somehow I ended up at his house. The next morning I left but I left without some plans that are important to a mission MI6 wish to carry out. If anybody finds out, I am in ... Well lets just say I am in a predicament."

"Quite." Sherlock coldly replied. "The problem, Mr Penber, is that you will have to give me even more details and absolute control."

"But I ca-"

"Then you know the consequences, Mr Penber." Sherlock quickly got up and stood right in front of Samuel. Looking at him right in the face. "Where is he sending them now? Last I heard Antarctica was open."

Samuel gulped and swiftly nodded. Taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he handed it to Sherlock. It had an address on it for somewhere just on the outskirts of London. "This is where I awoke. I assure you, Mr Holmes, that this is not a nice area. These plans are important ones and they are on a memory stick. You are aware with the type that MI6 use, I am sure?" Sherlock nodded. "Good. Get it, Mr Holmes, and I can make it worth your wild."

"Money doesn't interest me, Mr Penber."

Scanning Sherlock head to toe, Samuel smiled. The sides of his mouth turning in an unsightly manner. "No but I have something that will." Samuel walked towards the door and opened it before turning back round. "You have a week at best. Urgency is required. Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson."

"Something that will interest you, the great Sherlock Holmes." John laughed, hiding his irrational fear. He noticed the way that Samuel had looked at Sherlock, a way in which John knew all too well from nights out. Samuel was looking at Sherlock in a way, John was sure, should be reserved for private rooms above a bar... Oh.

"Yes, I wonder what he thinks he can bring to the table." Sherlock laughed suddenly. "Ah, John, we are his only choice, let's not disappoint the man."

"Let's not." John agreed, heaving himself up.

"Stay still for a second, John." Sherlock said quietly. John sat back down on the bed, waiting for Sherlock to talk. For a while, there was silence.

"Sher-" John felt his wrists grabbed and pulled above his head, a solid presence was settled on his chest. He felt his heart race as he realised that Sherlock had just pinned him to the bed. Sherlock's long, thin fingers kept John's hands in place, he held on to both of John's wrists with a single hand. The other hand was slowly, carefully probing through John's pockets.

"Surprisingly easy." Sherlock said suddenly, standing up and brushing his suit down. "John, thank you for letting me test a theory."

"Wha-" John began. "Wh- why?"

"If Samuel had been attacked, like I just demonstrated, there would've been marks around his wrists. That aside, it was a perfectly logical reasoning." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "Shame it didn't happen though."

Sherlock left the room quickly, making John rush after him. When he got down to the bar he just realised that his clothes were still creased from when Sherlock had pinned him to the bed. His hair was still slightly in a mess. As he passed the bar keeper, he smiled at him gleefully. John shook his head and followed Sherlock out of the door, who had already thanked the bar keeper for his services.

Outside Sherlock hailed a taxi and gave the address of the house to the driver. "What we going to do once we're there?"

"Well this is just going to be a quick look at the place. Search for potential areas. We will come back tonight so we can plan it correctly."

"Right." John looked down at his wrist. Evidence, in the form of a red mark, on his skin from where Sherlock had held him. He hadn't expected that at all. He remembered the way Sherlock had held him in place. The hand searching through his trouser pocket. So close. Sherlock had been basically on top of him, inches away. The fading smell of lavender still clung to him. John hoped he wasn't expressing his thoughts like he usually did. Hopefully his barrier was still strong. He'd hate to think that Sherlock could read his thoughts.

"About on the bed, John," the taxi driver let out a discomforting sound. "Sorry I held you down like that. It might have been inappropriate."

John's voice caught in his throat. "Just a little but I guess I am use to how you behave."

"Yes. Least we know that Penber wasn't forced on a bed and had the memory stick taken from him." Sherlock stated, looking outside the window.

John's heart was still beating fast. How, he questioned himself, could Sherlock Holmes turn a man such as he, a military man, into a flustered school boy? Why did his heart race when they were close? Why did Sherlock invade his dreams at night with promises of things that would never happen?

He stared out of the window, not seeing the streets as they were, but rather as he wanted. He wanted them to be open and sunny, for everyone to leave their work place and school and just to be happy, if only for a little while. John wanted the world to feel the joy that he couldn't.

Sherlock examined his hands; the small scratches on them annoyed him. Too bad this body was only the casing for his mind, a thing that would be lost to the world sooner or later. Sherlock had never had morbid thoughts. He had never thought about death as anything but something to be solved, another puzzle. But something, deep inside him, was stirring. It was waking and with it came an emotion Sherlock thought he'd locked away for good. Fear.

The taxi pulled up, jolting both men out of their thoughts. Sherlock jumped out of the taxi quickly and stood, hands on hips, in front of the magnificent monstrosity in front of them.

"Ugly, ain't it?" A voice said from behind him. "Took bloody ages to build and na' no one lives there."

The taxi pulled away and John stood across the street from Sherlock. John saw the man clearly, a pair of faded blue jeans and a polo shirt stretched over his portly stomach. He stood outside of a pub, clearly the owner as he had a towel in hand and was holding a few empty glasses in the other.

"Wanna come in for a drink, lads?" He asked, a smile on his red face. "'Cause there ain't much else 'round these parts."

Sherlock shot a look at John and nodded. "We'll come in. Pint of bitter for him and a whiskey for me."

"Whiskey? You don't drink whiskey."

"There are some things you don't know about me. I use to drink whiskey before you moved in." Sherlock said as he paid the man for the drinks. "It's considered the 'norm'. Especially at that stupid little club."

John put down his glass on the side of the bar where they sat. "How would you know? I've never seen your within a mile of that damn place."

"Not now anyway." Sherlock smirked. "I'm banned for a two mile radius."

"What on earth did you do?" John asked, staring at Sherlock with wonder.

"Only a few explosions." He chuckled, "lets just say, I am the reason for the no talking policy actually being properly enforced."

The side of John's mouth turned up. He could imagine one of the elderly gentlemen yelling at Sherlock as he walked around setting the place on fire. That would indeed be amusing. "Why we come in here anyway? The building was right there."

"I need to look at it by myself." Sherlock said as he looked outside the window towards the building.

"Oh"

"Well, I need to be in and out as quick as possible." Sherlock said coolly. He must have noticed the sudden change in John's expression as the next thing he said was: "You're still coming with me tonight though."

The barman pretended not to noticed as Sherlock downed his drink and walked briskly out of the pub. John looked down into his glass and sighed.

"I seen guys like 'im before." The barman piped up. "He'll get you into trouble."

"He already has." John laughed. "More trouble than... well, anyone else I know."

"Ah, he's a keeper then." The barman chuckled.

"Yeah... I just got to find a way to keep him." John smiled sadly.

The barman nodded and picked up a glass, he began to polish it to a perfect shine. Stillness settled on the almost empty pub. There were a few old men in the corner, a young man sat at the other end of the bar and John, the barman and a rather fat dog were at the other. The pub was cheery, but the overcast skies outside took away a lot of light. The cosy inside of the building was stifling to John, who was worrying.

Worrying about Sherlock. Sherlock would be, no doubt, climbing into the large house through a window or jumping a fence to get a closer look at something that interested him. John let his mind go blank. There was no point in imagining things that wouldn't help him.

John's hands found his glass and brought it to his lips. He sipped it and watched the young man at the other end of the bar.

He was slender, healthy, and tall. Six four, John guessed. His nose had been broken once and he had a pierced eyebrow. His hair was cut short and blonde. He looked like a typical thug; 'dangerous'.

The man looked up and noticed John watching him. He winked and took out his phone from a pocket of his sports jacket. It rang.

"Is it secure?" He asked the person on the other end of the line. "What do you mean you've found someone inside? Is the package safe? Good, kill him."


	16. Chapter 16

Another chapter for you guys. Some of the comments from the last chapter really made us laugh. Glad you liked it. XD

Heads up, I (Jessica forthoseswhodon'tknow) will be away in France until Friday night starting tomorrow so I won't be able to write with Rayne. I might be able to leave my details with Rayne and let her write chapter 17 but it is usually a thing we do together and I do adore editing this thing (because I am a saddo).

So yeah, enjoy.

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><p>The room around him was cloaked in darkness but his eyes remained vigilant. He was accustom to the wondrous feeling of the inky black surrounding his body. Protecting him. No one can see in the darkness. No trained sniper or bumbling police idiot. The dark was his territory. Something he had come to trust. It was best that he faced it alone. To search the house over. It meant he only had to concentrate on one set of footsteps. His own. Barely making a single sound. Sherlock was alone. That was until he heard the echoing steps trying to follow him in the darkness. How disappointing. He thought that this might have been entertaining.<p>

Working his way to the edge of the wall, he heard the soft click of a gun. By the sounds of the footsteps the owner was about six foot five' and weighed roughly seventeen stone. Shoe size eight. He crashed about the place which made him stick out like a sore thumb. This wouldn't be hard at all.

The man was inches away. Blinded by the darkness that Sherlock depended on so desperately now. Without he would be perfectly fine but this worked to his advantage. People were blind to their sense in the dark and all it would take was a simple attack for Sherlock to have the upper hand. Putting his foot out, the man stumbled and lost coordination. Giving Sherlock the perfect amount of time for him to disarm him and placed the man in a position that would be beneficial to himself. No sooner had he had the man unconscious Sherlock heard the fumbled footsteps of John Watson outside.

John stumbled into the open front door of the dark house, his eyes finding it hard to adjust to the inky darkness that filled the old building. He was aware that he was making too much noise, but he couldn't walk any quieter.

Sherlock slipped out of the room, his footsteps made no sound. His eyes couldn't see much further than his hands, but he could hear John's heavy breaths. He reached out and placed a hand firmly over John's mouth.

"Shh." He whispered. "And get out. Or make yourself useful."

"Mmmm." John mumbled, "Mmm mhmmm mmm." Sherlock drew his hands back to his sides and nodded at John. He walked past John and headed towards the stairs at the end of the hall.

John noticed a door in the wall, he gently pushed it open and saw in the darkness a few men, tied up and knocked out. Clearly Sherlock had been here. He shut the door and followed Sherlock.

The stairs were steep and old. They creaked under John's feet, although they didn't make a sound for Sherlock. John heaved himself up the stairs, feeling ungainly and bulky against Sherlock's gentle step and light touch.

Sherlock disappeared into another room, leaving the door ajar to let John in afterwards. John muffled a sigh and followed Sherlock into the room.

It was obvious that they weren't going back tonight. Sherlock wanted this case solved as soon as possible. The room they stepped into had a single dim light emitted from the bare light bulb. John saw Sherlock searching a bookshelf for something. Surely it couldn't be that obvious. Could it? Sherlock scanned the bookshelf intently until he did a sort of giddy jig when pulling out a book on horses.

John stared at him, puzzled. Horses? What was so important about horses? As if he had read John's mind, Sherlock walked over to John and opened the book to reveal a cut out section. Inside was the memory stick. Right, so that was what he was excited about then, John thought. He watched as Sherlock produced a replica of the memory stick out of his coat pocket and placed it inside the book.

John contemplated the speed in which Sherlock was completing these cases. It had obviously been a long time and he itching for the chase. It was inspiring and it made John beam inside. A happy Sherlock was good enough for him. Even if it meant him being his usual asexual, sociopathic, ill-timed self. It was what John loved. He especially loved this. The seedy cases. The dark rooms. The thrill of it all. Looking up, he saw Sherlock looking at him. Miming instructions to him.

"Move." Sherlock mimed. "Leave the house."

John backed up, after three steps he could no longer see the detective's face. A stab of pain ripped through John's heart, somehow he felt like he was losing Sherlock again. Stupid thoughts, John knew, but he couldn't help but feel lost again.

He shook his head and felt his way out of the room. He walked out into the hallway, looking around in the darkness he realised that his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, that meant that walking outside would be painful. He sighed and walked down the stairs.

"John," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "Do not move. If you take one more step, you will die."

"Okay" John whispered, trusting Sherlock to make the right decision. "What do I do?"

"Run."

"What?"

"Take my hand," John felt Sherlock slip his hand into John's, "And run."

"When?"

"NOW!"

They ran forwards, the detective and the soldier, hand in hand. Behind them the house exploded. Fire and smoke billowed out of the wreckage of the building. There were several smaller explosions. The heat blasted across their shoulders and the shock waves pushed them forward, onto their knees.

Ash fell around them as they tried to regain composure. The new addition of light to their eyes hurt momentarily. White spots flashed before John's eyes before he realised that he was still holding onto Sherlock's hand. Gripping it tightly. Sherlock didn't seem to be pulling away so John wasn't going to do it either.

Soon there were kneeling in the middle of the road, people from the pub rushing out, still holding hands. Sherlock was the first to pull away but only when he had gone to stand up. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his phone and dialled a number. "Hello, Lestrade. Explosion. Yes, there. I take somebody already rang. No? Oh. No, I can't tell you. I'll be gone by the time you get here. Goodbye." He turned to John, who was still on the floor. "Come along, John."

John nodded and silently followed Sherlock, who was rushing away. He couldn't make a sense of his thoughts again. How can, after such a little time of having Sherlock back, explosions already be happening? Then again, that was the Sherlock way. Mad, insane, wonderful, intelligent, cocky, arrogant, beautiful bastard that he was. John knew he would be thinking about that minute touch of flesh for a while. Why did he have to be acting like a pathetic teenage? He cursed under his breath. He wondered where Sherlock was taking him. Possibly home maybe. Though he doubted it.

Sherlock walked briskly ahead, calling a cab with remarkable ease. The black taxi pulled up and the two men climbed in. Sherlock shouted an address on the far side of the river, one that was not 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock turned to John, "Aren't you going to ask how?"

"How what?"

"How I knew where to go... Usually you ask."

"Oh," John frowned, "I figured you got it from some rare mud on his shoes or something... Like you normally do."

"No, that would've given me an approximate location. This is more specific."

"Oh, I've no idea then." John admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

Sherlock sighed and shifted in his seat. "I saw his business card, John. You should learn to observe, not just to see."

"Something that simple? Really?" John sounded almost amused. "Sherlock Holmes going for simple."

"Shut up, John."

"Fine. I'm just saying." John turned and changed the city pass him by. He watched the scene change from the lower end until they finally reached an obviously upper class area. He doubted nothing less. Especially after that bloody suit. John's thoughts were cut off by short by the chiming emitting from his pocket. He couldn't repress the noise of disappointment. "Mycroft." He directed towards Sherlock, who seemed to ignore him, before answering his phone. "Yes, Mycroft?"

"Such a delightful greeting, John. A source informed me that you were both in an explosion."

"Good deduction, Mycroft. Sorry, I don't have time for this."

"An explanation is all I require, John. I could easily find out."

"Then why don't you?" John huffed as he cut the conversation short and banished his phone to his pocket. Sherlock chuckled from the corner.

"He won't like that."

"He doesn't like anything." John added 'but cake' mentally because although he often found Sherlock's jibs at the man entertaining, he shouldn't encourage him. He was immature as it was.

The taxi finally pulled up to a giant building, white stone and elegant tall windows. Typical, thought John. Trust Mycroft to be associated with one of those people. Though, that was Mycroft all over.

John opened the door of the taxi and walked up to the house. He stepped over a few weeds, disappointing that a man like Samuel would let that happen. John commented on it. Sherlock seemed amused and followed at a slower pace.

There was a black painted door in the white stone wall, John reached it and stopped. He looked back at Sherlock who was examining a footprint in the mud.

"No one's been in the garden for a few days..."

"A few days?" John raised an eyebrow, making a signature John Watson face.

"Three days, maybe four." Sherlock nodded. "Let's see if anyone's home."

Sherlock rapped gently on the door of the house. The black paint made his white knuckles shine. No one answered; there was no sign that anyone inhabited the house.

"Maybe he has a London flat?" John suggested.

"Maybe..." Sherlock nodded, "But I doubt it. Let's go around the back."

It didn't take long for the pair to move around to the back. John couldn't even imagine the price of the building. That or he didn't want to. The back was very simple, simple garden and a little bit of a patio. The back door was ajar.

Sherlock and John exchanged looks before Sherlock placed his finger to his lips. Indicating John to be quiet, John nodded in agreement. Reaching behind him, John pulled out the gun that he had secretly brought with him. Like all those times he had done in the past. Always prepared. Like the proper little solider he was. Sherlock pushed open the door slowly and entered. John followed suit.

The lights were off and there was obvious sign of a struggled, Sherlock though. The lock had clearly been picked and by the way in which the room was organised he could tell Penber had been disturbed going about his daily life. A cry could be heard coming from what appeared to be the drawing room.

Slowly the pair moved through the house until they reached the door to the drawing room. Sherlock looked at John who simply nodded before pushing down the door handle and opened the door to find Samuel Penber on the drawing room floor. Beaten and bruised.

"Oh shit." John gasped upon seeing the broken body of Samuel Penber. Sherlock nodded and walked delicately around the room. Sherlock looked up at John who was hovering above Samuel's prone form. Sherlock nodded at John, but continued to look around the room for any sign of what could've happened.

John crouched down and took Samuel's bruised wrist in hand. He checked for a pulse, irregular and weak.

"Sherlock, we need to get him to a hospital." John said quickly. "Now."

"Fine. But you know this is Mycroft's work, don't you?" Sherlock smiled weakly, his eyes grim. "My brother was never one for games."

"Games?" John's eyes widened, he pointed to Samuel. "He's in need of urgent medical attention."

"Call the ambulance then." Sherlock sighed.

"There's not enough time!"

"Give me your gun." Sherlock demanded, John handed it over without a question. Sherlock marched outside and raised the gun, firing 6 shots in quick succession. "They're coming."


	17. Chapter 17

Hi guys, I'm back from my holiday! So sorry to have kept you waiting. I made Rayne wait too. Poor thing.

Sorry I've abused you. Right, two things now.

Number one - I am now stopping doing the italics. I've taken them out of all previous chapters too. I've done this because it has even started to annoy the crap out of me. xD

Number two - This chapter is for two people. One of them is xXxThreePatchProblemxXx because they've been with this from the start and they never ceases to make us smile. The second is to another user called Meredithriddle because one of their reviews literally made me snort. Actually snort. Which caused a very awkward situation in our house.

Anyway, here is your chapter, guys. Sorry it took longer than expected.

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><p>The flashing lights and muted sounds of the machines around them were the only signs that Samuel was alive. John sat forwards, his hands clasped together and he head bowed. Sherlock, however, was pacing, talking to himself and to John, who wasn't listening. He spoke to the unconscious Samuel as though he were the skull.<p>

John phased in and out of Sherlock's rambling. All he could think of was what Sherlock had said earlier, that this was Mycroft's fault. While he couldn't deny that Mycroft was a sore loser, he didn't think that the sour faced genius would go this far...

John looked around the room. Samuel's clothes were neatly folded on the chair in the corner, valuables on him on top. Ready to be bagged, John was sure. Something looked odd about the pile. The clothes were the same up class sort he had been wearing earlier that day. The watch was the same too. His phone looked expensive as did the pen and neckerchief he also owned but the piece of paper? It looked out of place. Scruffy and discoloured. Not the sort of thing a man like Samuel Penber would use.

Standing up, John walked over to the pile and picked up the piece of paper. Sherlock hadn't seemed to notice him leaving his chair. The paper was folded in half, a flimsy material that looked more ivory than white. The corner of the paper had a small droplet of blood. "Sherlock!" John called out. "I think you better come and see this."

Sherlock walked over and took the note from John. He sniffed it as he was able to pick up the scent of the person who had last touched it. Like a sniffer dog. He carefully opened the note and read aloud its content:

**Ah, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson too,**

**Your first proper case for the both of you,**

**I can't let you win, Mr Penber did wrong,**

**Going to you and singing his song,**

**It's a pity it is because now Mycroft will know,**

**But welcome to the start of my little show.**

"Not Mycroft then."

"Not Mycroft."

John shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and sighed. His eyes swept over the room, looking at Samuel's bruised face. The sight of the swollen, black and blue bruises on his face made John feel slightly sick. The beaten he must have taken was inhumane.

"Looks like we've got another Moriarty for certain." John mumbled, remembering that Sherlock's analysis had said that there were at least four men that attacked Samuel. Probably hired thugs, by the looks of it.

"Indeed, John... Indeed." Sherlock read the note again before folding it carefully. "I can't be sure that there will be any DNA evidence from this... Challenger. But I can see where it has been recently. I'm going to see Molly."

Samuel's machines beeped again softly, his breathing was speeding up. It was probably a bad dream, or he was going to wake up soon. He was still unconscious, in a - hopefully - temporary coma.

"I- Can I come?" John asked, watching Samuel's machines. "Or should I stay with him?"

"John, come with me. I need someone to keep people out my way."

John nodded and followed Sherlock out of the room. He watched the flow of Sherlock's coat and the way his shoes clicked against the laminated floors. The doors slammed shut behind them.

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. Her little smile was hidden behind her hair. She blushed and stood up.

"Hello Sherlock, John."

"I need to make use of your lab."

"Oh, alright." She said whilst walking over to the pair. "I suppose the lab is yours. Can I get you both a coffee?"

"You don't ha-"

"She wanted an excuse to go ring her boyfriend. It's okay, John. Sit down." Sherlock turned to Molly and smiled in an almost Hippocratic way. "Black, two sugars."

The door gave a loud crash and Molly hurried out of the room. Her phone out of her pocket before she even left the lab. John smiled. He was glad Molly had somebody at last. She didn't have the best choice in men after all. Two sociopaths and then there was that Jed guy. John had detested him. Good thing he had a cat allergy. Turning around John found Sherlock sitting by the microscope. Eyes glued to the lense. The piece of paper laid underneath. "You think he left some fingerprints then?"

"Only two sets on this, John. Yours and mine." John wondered how Sherlock knew what his fingerprints looked like. Then again it would explain that day he had woken up with ink all over his fingers. "I'll take a sample of the red substance on the letter."

"You don't think it's blood?"

"It appears to be. I'll do a haemoglobin test to be sure. It's an interesting test and I don't care for modern methods." John sat in the corner in silence as he watched Sherlock continue his work. It was interesting how the detective worked his way around the lab, in an almost stylised manner, collecting materials he needed. The smile on his face when a crystal appeared in the water made John's stomach flip slightly. It was clear they had blood.

"Now we know we're dealing with blood." Sherlock muttered. "But whose blood?" John shrugged; it wasn't like he'd know.

Molly clattered back into the room with two coffees in hand. Both in plastic cups with a cardboard holder. She handed one to John and left the other on the desk, away from Sherlock's work but still close enough to grab.

"What's going on?" She asked John while Sherlock danced around the room, his thin figure casting a thinner shadow under the harsh lights.

"Uh, someone got beat up pretty bad. He's upstairs." John looked Molly in the eyes and gave a sad smile. "Unconscious still... And Sherlock's got a stalker fan, like Moriarty but he writes poems, and um... we have three poems and one poem has blood on it. Don't really know what to make of it..."

"And the paper and ink." Sherlock chipped in. "Cheap stuff, not anywhere near good quality. It'd fall apart under detailed examination, so that was probably on purpose." John nodded, watching Sherlock's detailed hand movements that punctuated his sentences. "So, we've got someone who knows us... quite well."

"Your address book has two names. Mine and Mycroft's. We've already ruled out Mycroft and I've been with you since you got back." From the dead, John added mentally.

"Mhmm." Sherlock agreed. "I know."

"So ho-"

"Just because my address book has two names, John, does not mean I don't know people." Sherlock interrupted. "I have many acquaintances. You've met the Baker Street division of course and there are many others who are familiar with me. I had never met Moriarty before he set out to get my attention."

"True enough I suppose."

"I don't know why all these sociopaths seem do have such an interest in me." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sometimes, Sherlock, I can't decide whether you are the smartest dumbass or dumbest smartass that I know."

Sherlock's posture sniffened. "John, if you would take a moment from insulting me and focus on the case."

"Sorry. Got everything you came here for?"

"Yes." Sherlock finished off his coffee before reaching for his coat. "Come along, John. We have to go back to his house. Molly, can you run a DNA test please. Penber is upstairs if you need to cross reference."

With that he thundered out of the door and made his way towards the exit. John thanks Molly and quickly followed suit. As he tried to catch up with Sherlock he heard Lestrade's voice carry down the corridor. It seemed to be coming from a side corridor. Sherlock had disappeared and John knew he would be waiting outside so he slowed his pace a little.

"Tell me you had nothing to do with this." Lestrade paused. No doubt waiting for a reply. "Just tell me. I want to be sure. Yes, I trust you but I just want to be positive." On the phone then, John thought. "Okay, okay. I believe you. I'm sorry. I should know better just you know who it is..." Lestrade's voice trailed off as John moved further out of ear shot. Whatever that was he would try to find out later. Right now he had to find Sherlock.

Where would he be? If he wanted time to think? Where would Sherlock b- The roof. Of course. He would be on the roof so he could look over the place he'd beaten Moriarty, the place he'd jumped from.

John spun on his heel and ran to the stairs; he jumped up the concrete stairs and dashed to the roof. He reached the top and slowed down. He was panting. He slowed his breathing down and opened the door. His heart stopped.

Sherlock was standing on the ledge, over looking the pavement. No one was looking up so he was undisturbed. His coat was limp; there was no wind to whip it around. Sherlock was looking directly down, past his feet, down at the pavement.

"Does it scare you, John?"

John nodded, but realised that Sherlock couldn't see him so he swallowed and cleared his throat. "Get down, Sherlock."

"I suppose I should." Sherlock sighed. He turned around. "I had never been scared before. Not before this... Looking down at it. Even though I knew I had a plan, I was still scared."

"She- Get down." John snapped. "Now. Just get down, Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped forwards, down off of the ledge. He sat down and beckoned John over. John strode forwards with a confidence he didn't feel, he was just glad that Sherlock was still alive. For now.

"Stop overreacting, John."

"Overre- Sherlock! The last time I saw you on this blasted roof you-" The words choked in John's mouth. "What were you doing up there, anyway?"

"Thinking."

"Of course." John groaned. "Always with the thinking." Looking around the roof top, John could see the sun shining down and a cloudless sky. The busy London street wafted into his ears. He wanted to get off that roof. Away from that blasted building. He hated up there. He doubted Sherlock knew that.

"Come along, John. We can go to Penber's now." The pair proceeded downstairs and found themselves inside a taxi going back to the grand white building again. John was glad to find himself moving further and further away from the memories. He had no problem with St Barts himself but the roof was another matter. To see Sherlock standing on that ledge again. Talking about that day.

"What are we going to look for anyway?"

"Anything useful. Probably all gone now that the delightful police department have been able to trample their way through it."

"You know how it is. What was Lestrade doing there anyway? He works homicide. Assaults and stuff isn't his division, surely?"

"I don't know." Sherlock said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I'm sorry. Can you just say that again for me so I can make it my ring tone?" John smirked, trying to hide his smile.

"Shut up, John."

The taxi pulled up, the two men jumped out. The first thing John noticed was that Lestrade was standing waiting for them by the front door of the house.

"Greg." John smiled. "Didn't expect you to be here."

"I told them it wasn't our division." Greg sighed, "But come in. The boys haven't moved anything. You can take a look, if you want to."

Greg clapped John on the arm and smiled sympathetically.

"Ah, the delightful Sergeant Donovan... Is Anderson about?" Sherlock said smugly. "No, I doubt he is... I think his wife's back in town, is she not?"

"Shut up, Freak." She sneered at him before turning to Lestrade. "Boss, we're all ready to go, I'll head back to the station if you want."

"Go for it. I'll catch up, gonna make a phone call before heading back."

Sherlock pushed past everyone else and walked into the house, he peered around a few doors before he walked into the room that they'd found the beaten Samuel Penber in.

There was no apparent sign of a struggle but the blood smears shined out at Sherlock. He stared at wonder at the wonderful patterns they made as if he could tell their stories. He liked that about a crime scene. He could follow the bread crumbs to the gingerbread house until he came to the end of their adventure.

These patterns showed the usual tale. A story of punches and weapons repeatedly struck upon the delicate human skin. There had been four men involved in the beating itself but one solitary man stood by and watched for roughly ten minutes. That was clear by the footstep indents on the carpet. Judging by the back door this had been a well organised job with the soul purpose of sending out one thing. A threat.

The memory stick still heavy inside his pocket, he turned about the room as everybody else had disappeared. Everybody except John. Good. There would be a great lack of idiocy in the room. As he squatted down to look at the edge of the wooden coffee table, the distinctive sound of one of Mycroft's car pulling up filled the room.


	18. Chapter 18

Another chapter, guys. Hello and thank you to our new readers and, as always, our old. (:

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><p>Mycroft stood in the doorway. Sherlock and John stood in the middle of the drawing room. They stared at one another in silence. Mycroft in his usual uptight position. Umbrella hooked securely on his arm. "Sherlock."<p>

"Mycroft. How kind of you to finally arrive. I'm sure Samuel would be honoured."

"I'm not here for Penber."

"Oh I know," Sherlock chuckled. "You never could address your toys by first name, could you?"

John observed the pair shoot daggers at each other and felt silence would best suit him at the current moment. He did not wish to be brought into another Holmes brawl. No matter if it was verbal or physical. "Do you have it, Sherlock?"

"Perhaps," replied Sherlock childishly. As if he was hiding the fact he had just broken mummy's best china plate.

"Grow up, little brother."

"If you haven't noticed, Mycroft, I already have."

Mycroft let out a frustrated sigh as he entered the room. He took a momentary glance at staining blood on the floor before he tore his sight back to Sherlock. No sign of disgust or pleasure crossed his face. He conveyed nothing. This made John all the more uncomfortable. "Hand it over, Sherlock. Please." Sherlock laughed as he reached into his pocket and threw the miniature stick at Mycroft. He swiftly caught it, explained the edge and pocketed it. "There we go. Wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Turning on his heels, Mycroft started walking back towards the door as if nothing had occurred. "You wouldn't care if he died, would you?"

He froze in his space. Muscles tensing. "Would you?" His voice laced with ice.

"Of course not but that's not the point, brother dearest. The point is whether you would. Goodbye, Mycroft." With that the sound of God Save The Queen began to hum through the room causing Mycroft to continue his journey out of the building. It only stopped when the black car drove away.

"Remind me to never go to one of the Holmes Christmas dinners."

"John, don't be so normal." Sherlock laughed. "Mummy makes sure everything's perfect. Mycroft and I are not allowed to fight."

"Oh, sounds... Half decent." John nodded; he studied the room and ignored Sherlock's over excited examination. Sherlock threw himself to the floor and, lying face down, proceeded to mutter to himself. He stood up and dusted himself off.

"John, there are no clues." He said quietly.

"Huh?" John asked, surprised at Sherlock's bluntness. He would've usually spent hours, if needed, examining the room. Checking that everything was perfect.

"No clues. Not a single one." Sherlock muttered. "So think. If you were a criminal mastermind, a 'proper genius', what would you do?"

"Hire someone else to do it for me?"

"Exactly! So, now our question is... Who did he hire?"

"A group of thugs." John answered.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "but what thugs? Which ones? Names, ages, addresses. We need these things!"

"Can't you do some of your Sherlock discoveries and find a footprint that says he's so-and-so tall or this-and-that wide?"

"Not without the evidence!" Sherlock shouted. "And there's no evi-" he paused, turned around and faced John. "You're amazing!"

"I'm what now?" John asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

"You conduct genius!" Sherlock shouted. "Footprints!"

"Footprints?"

"Footprints, John! Footprints!" Sherlock grinned, running out to the back door, the one they'd entered through the first time they came into the house. John followed close behind. Sherlock pressed himself up against the doorframe and looked closely at the hinges.

"The door was opened forcefully. Skilfully, but forcefully." He said loudly, not expecting John to be so close behind him. "And now to look at the footprints." He pushed the door open and stepped out into the garden. It was a mess, the same mess as it'd been earlier. Sherlock was peering at the ground, as close as he could get without rubbing his nose on the dirt.

"She-"

"Shut up, John." Sherlock interrupted. John complied and remained inside of the door frame so he would not 'tamper' with evidence. "When you subtract the two sets of footprints made by us it is easy to figure out our men."

Sherlock stood up and beamed at John. A gleam in his eye that expressed the amount of entertainment he was getting from this. "Well?"

"Four men of course. All in their mid thirties. Minus one of the men who was in his early forties. The elder man is six foot five and weighs roughly sixteen stone whilst two of the younger men are both six foot two. One weighs fourteen stone whilst the other matches the weight of the elder. The remaining man is five seven and eleven stone though he was weighed down on one side suggesting he was holding a rather heavy object used to assault Penber." Sherlock began pacing around the garden carefully, looking for more clues. "The smaller man was here to open the door. Whilst the older man paced up and down. The two others remained pretty still for some time before they all entered the house. Eldest first." Barging past John, Sherlock ran towards the front door. "Mr Fourteen Stone walked over to, and unlocked, the front door. He waited for a few moments at the door before joining everybody in the living room. So he let somebody in. Somebody who didn't want to get his feet dirty. Do you know what this means, John?"

John looked puzzlingly at Sherlock. Trying to process the large information he had just been handed. "Not really, no."

"It means, John, we have somebody familiar with my methods! He's playing a game because he knows I'd want to play. Oh I do love the smart ones." John let out a disapproving sigh. "Easy to figure out after you pointing out the footprints. Can't believe you thought of it."

"I do possess some intellect, thank you very much." John huffed.

"Yes but by reminding me of the footprints you have given us an insight to our villains!"

"Uhuh." John agreed, he began drumming a repetitive pattern on his thigh. "So, what n-"

Sherlock grabbed John's elbow and raced out of the door. He watched the ground carefully, John didn't say anything more. Sherlock suddenly whined, watching the floor.

"No! No, no, no!" He shouted. "No! The tracks are gone!"

"What tracks?"

"The footprints, John! Keep up!" Sherlock looked at him, questioning something. "Silly little minds... But, John, if you wanted to get around without being seen, how would you do it?"

"Borrow the invisibility cloak?" John joked. A single, sudden look from Sherlock stopped John's larking about. "I'd take a taxi. People never remember taxis."

John's mind flashed back to the first case he ever helped Sherlock with. A Study in Scarlet. The taxi driver with the pills...

Sherlock jerked him roughly out of his thoughts with a hearty slap on the back.

"Well done, John! You're learning!" Sherlock reached into his pocket and began texting. John read over his shoulder, typically Sherlock the text was neither polite nor explanatory.

**Need records of all cars that came down the street in the last day. - SH**

"Come along, John." Sherlock yelled, walking around the side of the house and down the street path. Forcing John to run to catch up.

"And where are we going exactly?"

"Dinner I believe."

"Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner. It's a meal that people usually have in the evening after lunch but before supper." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John, keep up will you."

John resisted the urge to snap back and continued walking next to the detective. "And will you be eating?"

"Case."

"Right. Apologies."

Sherlock waved it off as he continued walking and turned a corner. "I do believe the place we're looking for is just around the next corner."

The pair walked up a long path for what seemed like forever until they finally reached the corner Sherlock had talked about. Once around it, they soon drew to a stop outside the neon light front of a fish and chip shop. Bright blue and red lights shone in John's eyes as his nose picked up the distinct smell of battered cod. "Fish and chips?"

"Best in London. Even if on the outskirts." Sherlock pushed open the door, making it produce a large ding. Almost immediately a plump woman emerged from behind the counter. Her cheeks a scarlet red.

"Sherlock!" She beamed, leaning on the counter. "The usual?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "This time I'm here looking for food."

The large woman laughed and slapped the counter in front of her. She spun around and, with surprising grace for a woman of her size, picked up an order. She handed it to a small teen boy before taking his change and putting it to rest in the till.

"Um..." John looked at Sherlock, who was looking at John expecting something. "I'll have a battered cod and ships."

"Large?" The woman asked, "Only, a large is code for 'help me, I've been kidnapped by Sherlock Holmes'." She giggled to herself. John shook his head.

"Small, please." Sherlock said with a smile. He seemed quite at ease with this woman, which surprised John. Although, John shouldn't be surprised any more, this Sherlock was a different person to the man that 'died'.

"John, meet Jo. She's the woman that kept me informed on the movements of the thugs in the Dinkleburg case."

"Ah, so she's your invaluable source." John realised. "Nice to meet you, Jo. John Watson."

"Joanna Tyler." She smiled back, holding a cone of chips out to Sherlock. "Now, you Mister, better eat. You're so skinny; it's not good for a body."

"I'm on a case. I don't eat. Digesting slows me down." Joanna sighed. "Although, I am hungry for information. Have a group of four men, three are thirty something, and there should be an older man, tall, late thirties or early forties, been in here recently?"

"Oh, Sherlock!" She cried. "You don't mean Jack and his young lads, do you now?"

"It depends," he said lightly, "they may have saved a man's life."

"Well then!" She beamed, "I'll send them over to you, if you're willing to wait. Usually they come here for their lunch, around six-ish."

"We'll wait. John, grab your food and sit." Sherlock nodded. "I'll be right back."

"Hey, that's not fa-" John protested, but it was too late and Sherlock had already left the shop.

"He does that all the time, dear." She laughed. "You sit down and I'll get your order ready. It's best you wait for him to come back."

John waited in the corner by the window. He felt shattered after the last eventful three or four hours. Rushing from the press release to a pub and then from an exploding building. The hospital wasn't exactly pleasant either. This chip shop looked like the most pleasant place of the day and it still looked like the last place he expected to have found Sherlock in. Especially there to eat. It all seemed a bit weird that he was still finding information about Sherlock out. After so long. "Sweetie, your order is ready!"

John turned his head to the counter to find Joanna smiling at him, his order in her hand. He smiled back and went over to collect his order. The chips looked cooked to perfection and the batter looked just right. Not too crispy but not soaky like that nasty sort you get. Thanking Joanna, who refused payment because "a friend of Sherlock's is a friend of Joanna's"; John retreated back to the corner and began to start his meal.

He had to agree. These were the best fish and chips he had had in a long time. It didn't take long for him to eat it all and he was glad that Sherlock had made his order a small. He was absolutely full. The idea of Sherlock polishing off an entire portion to himself made John want to laugh. That runt of a man hardly ever ate. It was like he survived on oxygen alone.

Sherlock hauled himself over the ledge of the roof. His slim frame was easily too small to weigh much more than he could lift. He slipped over the roof slates, making less sound that a breeze of wind.

"...and then 'e turned to me an' begged - 'tually begged - for us to stop." A rough voice laughed. Sherlock's ears pricked up. Was this the man he was looking for? He sulked closer to the open window from which the voice was coming from. "But the lads 'ad enough. We bugger'd off an' went to the pub."

"Indeed." A young woman said, Sherlock could tell it was a young woman, highly educated and upper class. "I can see you had some fun there." She cleared her throat. "But, as always, I must be off. It's a nice day and I want to stop by the shops for a quick peek in the sales. I'll see you next week, Uncle."

"Oh, aye. Take care, Tara, love." The rough voice laughed. There was an exchange of pleasantries that Sherlock ignored; this wasn't the man he wanted. He took an uncertain step over the roof tiles and made sure he was balanced. He took another. Soon he was on the other side of the building. From here he could see Penber's house, the front at least. Although, he reasoned, there was no way anyone could see the front of Penber's house from anywhere on the street but this maisonette. The thugs had to be here.

John looked out of the window, laughing to himself as he thought about Sherlock trying to eat a whole meal. Something about it was hilarious and he couldn't take his mind off the idea. Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock seemed only to eat when it was socially excepted, when he wasn't working, or when he was bullied into it. What was it he'd said... 'Everything else is transport'? John couldn't imagine neglecting his body like that. He wiped his face with the small napkin left out for him.

Jo's bustling energy seemed to warm up the shop, she waddled over to him.

"Was that alright, duckie?" She laughed. She seemed to be permanently laughing. "Did it fill you up?"

"Y- yeah, thanks." John smiled, one of the first true smiles he'd smiled in a while.

"Lovely. Anything else I can get you? Drinks?"

"Um... A coke would be great. Or tea."

"Oh, I'll make us both a cuppa." Jo smiled. "Sherlock loves a good cuppa."

"He does." John smiled. He looked down at his hands as Jo scurried to the back room. They were shaking. What?

John shook his head. This wasn't proper behaviour for him. Outside he heard the scurrying of city life and the loud, boisterous sound of men approaching.


	19. Chapter 19

Sorry it took so long guys, blame me. I've been swamped with work to complete and at least two nights of every week I am at my Nan's. Sorry!

As usual enjoy and thank you. :D

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><p>The decent from the roof was trickery than the assent. As Sherlock found out. The drain pipe was weaker than he had calculated however the window ledges and bins he had first used work just as well. When he got back down he dusted himself off and made his way back towards the fish and chip shop. He wasn't even around the corner when he heard the loud antics of four men. The other men sounded different to what he had heard earlier.<p>

As he approached the chip shop he saw John huddled up in the corner nursing a cup of tea and the four men seemed to be cheerily occupying the shop. Jo was smiling behind the counter. It was amusing seeing John hide in the corner. Well, he best go and save him from his fate.

The bell of the door chimed and Sherlock walked through. John turned around straight away and a state of relaxation over took him as soon as he has seen Sherlock. He directed his eyes towards the four men, asking silently if they were the men they were looking for. "No, sorry, John. No results here."

"Oh, shame." John nodded. "Best be off then..."

"Yes," Sherlock whirled around and winked at Jo. She raised her eyebrows and he shook his head, almost without moving. "Let's be off."

John stood up, feeling his body resisting the movement after sitting still for so long. He walked out of the shop, waved at Jo from outside and was swept along by Sherlock.

"So?" John asked. "You've got the face on again."

"The f- oh, the face. Yes." Sherlock turned his collar up and shrunk into his long jacket.

John sighed and looked out at the road in front of them. "Now you're doing the collar thing... Jesus, Sherlock, why don't you just go put three patches on and brood day in, day out over some minuscule thing that no one else saw?"

"I will do, later." Sherlock mumbled, absent mindedly. "We need some milk... And jam."

"I'll get some milk and jam then." John sighed, "But we need to get home first."

Sherlock stuck his arm out and almost within a second a taxi had pulled up next to them. John climbed in and sat in the back, the warm musk of the cab reached his nose and calmed his, unnecessarily, jittery nerves.

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock announced, he slid into the seat with the grace of a serpent. "Quickly."

The cab moved quicker than John had expected. Especially for the time of day. He expected the traffic to be busy, meaning their journey would be extremely, and tediously, slow. However they pulled up to Baker Street within record time and both hurtled out of the cab. Sherlock remained inaudible as he rushed upstairs to carry out whatever he was going to do. John thought it was best to leave him and head to the shops. Sherlock wouldn't notice him missing.

The shop was basically empty apart from a woman looking at the gossip magazines by the counter and, what appeared to be, a teenage yob eyeing up liquor he was too young to purchase. John walked over towards the fridge section and picked up two cartons of milk. He might as well get double for safety. For a man who doesn't eat anything and has his coffee black, he sure does go through a lot of milk. The jam wasn't too hard to find but he wasn't sure what sort to get. He had been getting raspberry for the last few months but he knew Sherlock was partial to blackcurrant. He got both.

The man at the counter didn't really pay John any attention as he walked up. He was deeply consumed in his Nuts magazine and appeared uninterested in the outside world. John had to cough to get to attention. Several times. He looked a little annoyed as he chucked John's items into a bag and ran the money through. He forced the change into John's hands before replacing a long forgotten earphone and returned back to indulging within his 'intellectual' piece of literature.

John huffed. Some people these days were too lazy for their own good. As he made his way to the exit he noticed that the woman was still looking at the magazines but the teenager had now moved on to look at the giant piles of crisps in the middle aisle. Shacking his head, he pulled open the door and plunged into the quickening darkness. Hopefully he would get a chance to sleep that night. Or so he thought until he remembered the fire damage from earlier that day. He had almost forgotten about it within the rush of the exploding buildings and near death political men. It all made the assent of the stairs to the flat much harder than it ought to be. His troubles only cleared after he had entered through the door into the kitchen to find everything restored. Sometimes a concerned stalking brother came in handy.

"John," Sherlock sighed, "I'm confused."

John started; the great detective Sherlock Holmes was confused. Was that even possible? Clearly it was.

"Why?" John asked, setting the bags of shopping down on the table. He picked out the jams and the milk and hurriedly put it all away.

"The men." Sherlock said, he tapped the bridge of his nose and hummed, loudly. John looked back at Sherlock, humming and making a lot of noise. The man's thoughts were chaos, a train wreck, impossible to follow unless explained. But he'd been explaining himself to John for years now, and John understood a lot of what Sherlock did. The noise was to stop Sherlock from screaming or shooting something. John nodded to himself, found some bread in the cupboard and popped it in the toaster.

"Toast, Sherlock?"

"Case. No eating. Digesting-"

"Slows you down, got it." John nodded, drumming the worktop.

"John, stop making that infernal noise and occupy your hands with a more rewarding task." John stopped the drumming almost immediately, mumbled something under his breath and left the room.

Sherlock was puzzled. He had heard the men on the roof, it was all so logical. Unless they had gone down a different turning. He hadn't even heard the other four arrive at the scene. Whoever these men are they're clever, Sherlock thought. He would go back to the chip shop tomorrow and maybe they can work from there. Annoying as it was, there wasn't anything he could do tonight and John needed to sleep apparently. How Sherlock loathed the workings of the human body. It made work so much more tedious and over stretched. Sherlock's thoughts were cut short by the popping of the toaster. "John. Your toast. The popping distracted me. Please see to it."

From the corner of his eye Sherlock saw the outline of John shuffle back into the kitchen, put some jam upon his toast and retreat back to his room. It was too early for him to be going to bed. Barely even seven o'clock. Perhaps he was working or doing some writing. Not that it was of great importance to him.

In his room John was indeed typing away at the computer. He found it easier to write his private blog posts somewhere where a detective with the characteristics of a meerkat would not be able to pop up and read his work.

Over the last two and a half years John had gotten use to writing a blog post very often. Even if it was private. His therapist for once had been right. The website helped him. It was like a diary. Just for him. If anybody desperately wanted to they could easily hack it. Especially someone like Sherlock. John hoped not as he sat there typing away. As the words left his body and stuck out at him from beyond the computer screen, John felt at ease once again.

From the living room he could hear Sherlock pacing around mumbling. Thankfully he wouldn't be able to take control of his laptop. Seeing as Sherlock's was already in the living room. Not that he had ever used it before. It was just one of those things he needed but would rather steal John's. John chuckled slightly to himself. A little gloomy chuckle. John was still trying to get his head around Sherlock being fully back. Even more so now that he had come to realise he harbored feelings for the man. It made things all the more difficult. He couldn't exactly tell Sherlock about his feelings. That would make it not only awkward but also pointless. It's not like Sherlock would reciprocate John's emotions. This was just going to have to be one of those things that John surfed through. He was pretty good at that.

John liked the way he felt after typing away at his laptop. It calmed him down. Recently he had downloaded something that helped with his spelling so he wouldn't get complained at. It seemed logical. Even more so now. He closed the laptop lid before taking a deep breath to compose himself. Walking back into the living room John saw that a few of the books had been scattered around and papers lying on the floor. To be more specific they were music sheets filled with numerous hand drawn notes. He could see Sherlock's scribble in some of the corners and at the sides. The detective however was nowhere to be seen. A few more moments peace. Plonking into his chair John sighed and reached over for the newspaper that had been abandoned there long before. If he didn't have time earlier he would now. More so now they were having an evening off. He did like it when the cases moved quicker. It took his mind off things but by Jove they made him tired.

There wasn't much interest in the actual paper. There was a story of a woman whose husband had been in missing for sixteen years and how a mysterious shoe had reunited them. John laughed at the idiocy. It sounded more farfetched that something Sherlock would manage. Though if it was in fact Sherlock the husband wouldn't have been missing sixteen years but roughly sixteen seconds more than likely. There was yet another story on Help The Heroes which at that point was enough for John. He closed down the paper, fed up of reading it, and stared out the window. He couldn't wait to read the papers in the morning. Images of **"HATMAN RETURNS!"** splashed across the front pages made me snigger. That would be hilarious if they used that picture. The one Sherlock would never be able to hide from. It was almost entertaining in a way. Even if it did mean he was the Robin of the duo. The side kick. It was worth it to see the frustration on the man's face whenever he saw that picture of him in the 'death Frisbee' hat.

A clattering sound echoed from inside the bathroom causing John to turn his head in that direction. Whatever Sherlock was doing John now knew where he was and that it involved mess. He had probably had a shower to save time tomorrow morning. That didn't explain the clatter. It was a little worrying until he heard the door unclick. The door opened producing a near enough naked Sherlock. He had only bothered with a towel for his hair. John looked away, not wanting to be caught staring for too long or at all for that fact. "Sherlock, is it so difficult for you to at least put a towel around your waist?"

The detective didn't reply but instead slinked away into his room. It took awhile for John to actually notice that he was indeed missing from the room. Looking at the time it was barely even nine o'clock at night but John felt shattered. He felt that it was best to go to bed early. Especially if tomorrow planned to be as eventful as the day before it.

Not long after John had retreated to his room for the night Sherlock exited his once again. This time dressed within his pyjamas and wearing his wonderful blue dressing gown. He didn't feel like lying down and everything else seemed too trivial. Seeing his sheet music he decided we would work on a new piece. He soon found some new paper upon his desk and a pen wasn't hard to locate. Picking up his violin he gracefully began to play. Notes drifted through the apartment. This was softer to his usual music. It was peaceful. It sounded like a piece from a man who was finally home. Sherlock played long into the night until his piece was complete. After which he remained in silence waiting for the moment that John would awake.


	20. Chapter 20

Hot damn. Twenty chapters. Thank you guys so much for following and supporting us this far. This would have been uploading last night however I fell asleep and found a load of #'s in the middle of Lestrade's name this morning. So yeah, enjoy.

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><p>The first thing John thought about when he woke up the next morning was getting himself to the news agents as soon as possible to buy the morning paper. He couldn't wait to see the headlines. Even if that turned out to be the highlight of the day. It wasn't so much making fun of Sherlock with the idiotic headlines, especially from The Sun; it was about the fact he could finally turn to the world and show them how right he was. All the time they had told him to stop believing. Now they would be printing that Sherlock Holmes was alive and innocent.<p>

John hurled himself out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. The material slid over his arms with ease before he tied the cord and headed for the door. When he opened the door he saw Sherlock lying on the sofa, humming to himself. Looks like he has forgotten to sleep. Again. Sighing he walked over to his chair to discover his usual paper waiting for him. The headline hidden. Probably a good thing too. He picked up the paper and sat down on the chair. Sherlock still remained silent on the sofa. "Thanks for getting the paper."

Silence replied. Just like he has expected. John unfolded the paper to reveal the headline and tried his best to stifle the laughter emerging from his throat.

Sherlock raised his head and smirked at John.

"Good headlines today, I rather liked this one." He remarked. "'Super Sleuth Sherlock Not Dead... Yet'."

John snorted and looked down at his paper, this headline was hilarious. He scanned the article in front of him, picking out key phrases and reading them to Sherlock.

"Look at this one, 'Our very own Sherlock Holmes, disgraced genius, pulled himself out of the lie today and proved to the world that he was well and truly alive.' It seems as if they worship you again."

"The media are fickle." Sherlock noted before shutting his eyes and continuing his humming. John read the rest of the article in silence. 'Confirmed bachelor, John Watson,' sprang out of the mess of words a few times. This was pathetic, he thought, why was he getting so worked up? It wasn't like the paper was lying. He was in fact a bachelor and had been for quite a while. He also had no intention of actually dating anybody because he felt like it would be betrayal. What was the point of dating somebody else when you felt your entire body and soul belonged to another? None, thought John. That didn't stop him getting worked up. Maybe it was because he felt that it was an invasion of his privacy. More than likely because it opened opportunities for people to start gossiping and how people loved to gossip. How John loathed gossip. It had been on every vicious tongue he encountered since Sherlock had 'died'. Especially the tabloids. Looks like another web of lies will emerge now. Just what they needed amongst the sea of crime and sociopaths. "I wish they would stop with the confirmed bachelor stuff."

"It's true though. You are a bachelor." Sherlock chortled.

"Not the point, they never mention your marital status thing."

"That's because it would be absurd for me to conduct in any form of relationship unless it was benefiting for a case. In which I would soon decease said relationship after the case had of course been complete. Relationships seem a pointless human pass time. The only decent thing it does is open up the possibility to pro-creation, in the heterosexual variety of couples of course, and even then the offspring aren't always what you would call... hopeful."

"Yes, I get it. Relationships are a work of the devil, are pointless and just get in the way." John rolled his eyes, trying to mask the slight tugging he felt in his chest. Of course he should have expected something like that from Sherlock. Doesn't mean that the realisation hurt him any less.

Sherlock heard something sharp in John's voice; this man was sharper and colder than the John he remembered. His smile, unlike the old John's smile, seemed forced. The thing with pretending to be someone else was that you always painted a perfect portrait of yourself.

John was not at ease with Sherlock the way he used to be. That was all that Sherlock knew because, although he had all the facts laid out in front of him, he couldn't decipher the emotions behind them.

Everything was the same, but something was different. Why did this silly little thing nag at his clearly superior mind, the same way it would to a normal person?

There were lines on John's face, and the way he sat was more relaxed... Almost clashing with his military hair cut. From what Sherlock could recall the way he stood wasn't as formal either, the training was wearing off. But there was a quality that Sherlock hadn't seen in John before, a worn down, beaten look that he had never seen on John's face.

What was it Mycroft had said? 'That man has fought a thousand wars in your absence.' It looked as though it were true.

Sherlock didn't get a time to contemplate these thoughts long as he soon saw John's entire face drop with what could only be shock. "Sherlock, did you actually read the paper?"

"You know we read different papers, John. I wouldn't dare read yours."

"And you only bought one today, no other one and read it already?"

"Will you stop talking in riddles and get to the point." Sherlock groaned. This was starting to get quickly tedious. He wished John would stop performing the basic human tasks.

"There's been a fire." John sounded worried for some reason.

"There's always a fire somewhere, John. It's not major news." He sighed before walking into the kitchen. He had yet to have a cup of tea that morning. From the kitchen he could hear John gulp. Obviously something was now troubling him.

"Sherlock, it was Jo's fish and chip shop." Sherlock stopped what he was doing and placed the cup safely on the counter. "They found a body."

A very disturbing silence came from the kitchen, like Sherlock was trying to calculate the possibility of this. It was unnerving. For some reason the man scared him more when he was not talking. He couldn't be upset, John knew that. That was emotion and Sherlock didn't have emotions. The most John had seen him portray was when that moronic American and harmed Mrs Hudson. Whatever it was John knew that Sherlock was thinking in the next room. "Get dressed. Now. We're going down there. I'll ring Lestrade."

Lestrade got out of his car, his phone had been ringing non stop for the last half hour. It was pointless as he'd already decided that the second the fire crew got off of the scene, he would let Sherlock and John in. They'd figure it out, that he could not doubt.

Sherlock was standing next to John, his coat whipping about him in the breeze and his collar pulled up to his angular cheekbones. John looked tired, but excited. Rather like a puppy that knew it had been playing for too long, but wanted to continue. There was something else about the pair... It seemed as though they were concerned. For who?

"Greg, thanks for getting here." John nodded, "We think we might know why it was done."

"The question we have at the moment is, how was it done?" Greg said quietly, "We told the papers it was an accident, the fryer over heated and sparked. But that didn't happen. We don't know how the fire was actually started."

"I see." Sherlock nodded. "Could you get someone with a ladder? I have a feeling I need to get to the second floor."

"The stairs aren't burnt out..."

"I need a ladder, Lestrade."

"I'll try to find you one."

They both watched as Lestrade walked over to an apparently new member of his team and ordered him to acquire a ladder. Well it would appear so anyway due to the face the man had pulled when Lestrade had finished talking to him. "We don't even know it was her yet, Sherlock."

"That was her room, John. She never leaves her flat from ten o'clock at night and the fire was reported to have started at two o'clock in the morning." John wasn't quite sure how he knew her schedule quite so well. He must have stayed here once.

"Okay, okay. Let's just solve this for her then. We'll forget about the Penber case for now." Sherlock let out a faint hmm. "You think they're both completely related, don't you?"

"There are never any coincidences, John. It's always connected to something. If it wasn't because of the Penber case then what? There were no grudges against her and it was obviously no accident. There is no other probable situation or reason. You were right when you told Lestrade we might know why this was done."

Lestrade soon returned and began going over the details of when the fire occurred. It had been called in at exactly twenty past two in the morning by a concerned neighbour. She was currently being interviewed. As soon as the fire crew had gotten there it was too late to save the first floor however they managed to stop it before it spread downstairs. When searched later they discovered the body at around three thirty am. "You have any ideas about who it is?"

"Already confirmed to be the owner of the chip shop below. Her face wasn't burn somehow and therefore it was easier for us to have her identified. The fire crew said the first floor is secure enough to walk on."

Sherlock walked quickly, his eyes taking in all of the mess around him. He reached the stairs of the blackened chip shop and turned to John.

"Can you get the ladder? I need to check one more thing before I can solve the Penber case."

"Sure... Yeah, okay." John nodded, backing out of the shop that he'd followed Sherlock into. Looking around he found Lestrade shouting towards the new recruit.

"They don't send what you need, eh?" John nodded at the lad.

"He's not too bright. Doesn't understand that a lot of the stuff he wants to deal in is not our department."

"I got that in the army." John sighed, "Young lad wanted to be a war hero... Didn't realise that the war was, well, what it was." John suddenly realised what he was talking about. "I... er, Sherlock wants the ladder."

"Yeah, I'll br- Can you get it from him? I need to find someone with the details of that woman's statement." Lestrade said, tracing the stubble on his chin.

"Sure, yeah." John smiled briefly before striding off to the new recruit.

Sherlock heard John returning with the ladder, about time too. He was getting impatient. He wanted to finish this case and start another, more interesting one.

"John, bring it in here."

"Alright, Sherlock. Keep your pants on." John muttered, carrying the ladder over his shoulder. He smiled as Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly pathetic when it comes to lifting heavy weights."

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded. "Put it there. I need to break the ceiling."

"...Break the... Why?" John asked, dropping the ladder on the floor suddenly. He scrambled to control it and hold it upright.

"I need to see if, like I think there will be, there is a flammable liquid on the roof."

"Sherlock, that makes no sense." John shook his head. He pushed the ladder against the burnt wall and stepped back. A heavy smell of burnt wood and plastic hung in the air.

Sherlock picked up an only slightly singed wooden chair and snapped the leg off. With this in hand he climbed the ladder. While perched on the top rungs he tapped the roof and listened carefully.

"Aha." he gasped, he swung back his arm and smashed it into the roof. A sudden crash and splintering sounded as Sherlock broke the roof. A cascade of dust and dirt fell around John.

"Thank you, Sherlock." John sighed, brushing himself clean.

"John, you better come up here. And call over Lestrade."


	21. Chapter 21

Sorry it's been so long, guys. We both have a lot of school work and this week was show week for the school musical and I was helping out all week. Been beat. Also there was a problem with our connection so asdfgh. Sorry and here!

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><p>John scrambled up the ladder, squinting in the sudden ray of sunlight that hit him square in the face. He opened his eyes wide, in surprise and shock, when he saw what Sherlock was crouching next to.<p>

On the roof of the chip shop was a man. He was barely conscious, and covered in a shiny, but clear, liquid.

"Careful," Sherlock said calmly, "that liquid's flammable. I think he's one of the gang that got Penber."

"So, take him to the police station and get him questioned!" John shouted, not daring to step away from the flat roof he found himself on. It would take 6 steps to get back to the hole he'd climbed out of, and he'd have to climb over the wet, slippery, highly flammable slates if he wanted to get to Sherlock.

The man groaned, he coughed and something dark speckled his lips. He was bleeding, probably in his lungs. John's medical training kicked in.

"Sherlock! Don't touch him!" John shouted. He turned around and tried to get someone on the street outside the house's attention. One man looked up, then another, and another. John's phone rang. Greg. He was a life saver.

"John, what the fuck are you doing up there?" His voice was tinny and hollow.

"Paramedics. Now." John said, clearly but not calmly. "Suspect on the roof, bleeding internally. Get some paramedics!"

"Too late, John." Sherlock appeared at his side. "Just run!" Suddenly a great wall of heat hit John's back. Fire.

John's legs soon kicked into gear and ran back towards the ladder. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest and yet he felt nothing other than excitement. As a doctor it should have worried him that something as dangerous and life threatening made him feel alive. Maybe it was completely wrong to be thankful of all the sudden drama forced back into his life. He was ushered down the ladder first by Sherlock who quickly followed. John swore he had never gotten down a ladder that fast before in all his life. Expect that time he had fallen off it in year nine when him and his friends had been mucking around in the garden.

At the bottom he found an extremely worried looking Lestrade. Obviously searching for the non-existent victim. When John walked over to Lestrade he didn't speak but merely shake his head. Sherlock was soon next to them. In the background John should here the nearing sounds of fire trucks. Looks like Lestrade had summoned them again.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Lestrade demanded. "There was a fire on the roof! There was someone on the roof! What was going on up there?"

John shook his head and pointed to the door. He wanted to get away from the roof as soon as he could. Sherlock laid a hand on John's shoulder and pushed him out the door. Lestrade was next. Sherlock followed them down the stairs.

"So?" Lestrade demanded again.

"There was a man, a traitor to the gang, up there. He was beaten, like Penber and was covered with a flammable liquid. He dropped a lighter and died, rather than go to a hospital and help us."

"So, loyal traitor?" Lestrade's brow crumpled.

"Scared boy, Greg." John said quietly. "He was terrified."

"Ah." Lestrade nodded. "That doesn't give us any clues though!"

"Actually," Sherlock grinned, "it does. We know they're a gang. Based locally. Who know the area. And the people in it."

"So?"

"So, we only have to find the boss. And get him to talk." John said, watching Lestrade's face.

"No, not even that much work." Sherlock said. "The man that hired them, we'll never be able to find him using the information we have. So, we forget the Penber case."

There was silence amongst the men. Slowly the sounds of the outside world penetrated their bubble.

"What?" John asked, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Sherlock was... Giving up a case.

"We'll gather more information as it goes along and we'll find the person responsible. Sooner or later."

"Well," Lestrade sighed. "Okay."

"I'd send some competent people up there up after the fire has been put out." Sherlock turned and began walking up the street.

"Walking away without an explanation. Again." Lestrade chuckled. "You know, I've actually missed that."

John nodded in agreement. He had to admit, he had missed the little things. Though some of the things had started to annoy him again. He had missed the man but he had forgotten how infuriating he was. "Have you got the time?"

"Yeah," Lestrade raised his arm to inspect his watch. "It's twenty to twelve."

"Thanks." John continued to look at the watch. He had sworn the day before the man had been wearing a metal strap. Today however Lestrade had a brown leather one on with a different watch face. It was well polished and looked relatively new. "New watch?"

"Erm... yeah. It was a gift." Lestrade replied sheepishly.

"Oh, who fr-"

"JOHN! HURRY UP!"

"COMING!" John yelled back before turning to Lestrade.

"Bye, John."

"Bye, Greg." John rushed after Sherlock and soon caught with him. "So where are we going exactly?"

"Chemical distribution factory."

"Why on earth are we going there?"

"That liquid used was an industrial solvent. Seeing as the men are local that would mean the large quantity required could only come from a local factory. There is only one chemical distribution factory in this area of London. Hence that's where we are going."

John stood puzzled for a moment. "And how did you deduce that the liquid was an industrial solvent?"

"The smell. It was a sweet smell so that narrowed down the field. The rate of burning too. All that indicated that we're looking for Trichloroethylene." Sherlock let out a disappointing sigh. "Laws prohibit it being used within food and pharmaceutical industries. Due to the toxic nature. Probably safe too. Just do not know why it is being used around here. Unless it was ordered by the company especially for somebody."

Sherlock's long strides pulled him quickly away from John, who hurried to catch up as best he could. Sherlock's eyes were focused on something John couldn't see, probably some part of his amazing 'Mind Palace'. John followed him as close as he could, to make sure that Sherlock couldn't get into any trouble.

"Left." Sherlock muttered, still not fully 'there'. He was think, hard, about something. John jogged a few steps to keep up. They turned into an alley, a dingy little road that had a distinct smell of rotting litter. John's eyes bulged as he tried to keep his breathing under control. Sherlock didn't seem bothered by the stench.

"Right." He said, only loud enough for John's ears to have to strain to hear him. The duo walked through an old playground. Inside the fences sat a group of about twenty teenagers. Most, if not all, were boys. The group of kids that hung around avoided them. There was an element of fear in the air. The kids were scared of Sherlock? Or of John?

"Here..." Sherlock said, looking up at an old factory. "This is it."

"It's a shithole, Sherlock." John said a hint of impatience in his voice. "They won't have kept anything flammable here."

"What's that then, John?" Sherlock said, pointing to the far wall. There were barrels of something stacked three high across the back wall. John shook his head.

They couldn't possibly hold that substance Sherlock had spoken about. The barrels probably contained nothing. Even if they did look oddly suspicious. It was just unlikely. Especially for the area. Then again Sherlock hadn't been wrong about things like that before. John fathered what was coming next. Investigation. Exploration. Knowing their luck probably an explosion or two. Maybe a crazed gunman.

Of course Sherlock was the first one to approach them. He ran his hands over the barrels. Letting his fingers curve with the shape. John could see the faint resemblance of what appeared to look like a chemical warning sticker. Looking around John saw a possible two locations which the barrels could belong to however Sherlock seemed to edge towards a rusting metal door on his left hand side. The building looked run down and void of all life. John didn't doubt that. It certainly looked it. He doubted the place had been used for probably industry in years. Yet it still covered as a chemical distribution factory. Something wasn't quite right there. Why would an apparently run down factory still order harmful or flammable substances if they weren't going to sell them on for use in production? Something fishy was going on and it didn't take a genius to figure that out.

Sherlock reached out to grab the handle. The door swung open. Inside John could see numerous boxes and packages that could contain numerous items John didn't even care to think about. As far as he knew the men who had killed Jo and nearly killed Penber were in there. He knew Sherlock would dive head first into the unknown. He always did. It was just lucky John always carried his gun with him. It always came handy.

John held his gun in the 'safe' position, although with a gun there was never an actual safe position. Come to think of it, around Sherlock there seemed to be no safe position either. And John had landed himself the most dangerous job, the ever-faithful assistant.

Faithful John, he chuckled to himself, that used to be his favourite fairy tale. Now it just reminded him that he was following an idiot. It would take Sherlock forever to realise that listening to John was a good idea and John didn't hope for it in the next few years.

He crept into the darkness beyond the open door and stopped, letting his eyes adjust and the faint light from outside make Sherlock vaguely visible.

"Wha-"

"Shh!" Sherlock stepped forwards, almost nose to nose with John and whispered, "No talking."

John nodded. He followed Sherlock around the room like a lost puppy.

"Okay." Sherlock nodded. "No bugs."

"Why would you be worried about bugs?"

"Because if I had a 'top-secret' base that I wanted hidden, I'd build it somewhere no one would ever go. And, on the off chance someone did go there, I'd have a security system in place." Sherlock sighed as though John's inability to follow his thoughts was uncommon amongst people.

"Ah." John nodded. He tightened his grip on the gun. Something was making him feel very uneasy. Something close by.

Looking around was utterly pointless. It wasn't like he would be able to see anything. He knew Sherlock probably could see through the dark like some weird form of nocturnal animal that lived off carrots. It was just what you had to expect with the man.

John slowly edged forward, the gun raised in the air. He didn't know where he was pointing but it made him feel protected. He put it down to old army techniques. A cocked gun and an unarmed madman who was actually on his side. For some reason that wasn't exactly comforting. Then again the way he had been thrown into all of this wasn't exactly comforting either. It had been three days since Sherlock had returned and the death toll was quickly rising. Just like the old days. His limp was completely again gone now. Showed John how quick he did depend on Sherlock.

Something rustled in the behind him, forcing John to quickly spin around. He could hear Sherlock doing the same. What he couldn't hear was the sound of breathing. From anybody. It was unnerving. That's when he heard it. The humming. It was eerie. Almost like a nursery rhyme. There was something to it though. A nervousness. It wasn't being hummed with ease. It was like they were scared. Like they didn't have a choice. This reminded him too much of something. Too much of the past. He didn't like it one bit. He remembered another sick freak who had had a thing for nursery rhymes. Thrived off of them.

A blinding light flicked on and filled the room leaving both John and Sherlock to close their eyes.


	22. Chapter 22

It's been awhile. Apologises! Both Rayne and I have been swamped with coursework and examinations are coming up. Luckily it is the holidays.

Also we are pleased to announce we have just hit the 200 subscribers mark! Hello to all you new people and hello to our old. Thank you all so much. Motivation for this probably wouldn't be possible without.

We hope you enjoy the upcoming chapter and we hope we'll be able to provide you with the dreaded 23 later (I only say dreaded because of the 23 curse. ;D). So yeah, sit back and read. We hope you enjoy (on another note - I REALLY like writing sadistic poems now).

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><p>Sherlock was the first to open his eyes. John noticed as he heard the detective run forward and yell at him to ring Lestrade. As John pried his eyes open he saw the resemblance of a man, barely supporting himself up, taped up with duct tape. He was roughly six foot five with, by the looks of it, sixteen stone behind him. He was obviously the older man Sherlock had spoken about. His skin was bruised and bleeding.<p>

His medical mind kicked in and he rushed over to the man. Who still seemed to be humming an eerie nursery rhyme. It was like he didn't have a choice. Carefully John removed the tape from the man's mouth whilst Sherlock scanned the area looking for signs of anything. Something out of place which he could put together. There was nothing. It just looks too perfect. The tape didn't come off easy and John was trying to reassure the man. Despite the agony portrayed in his eyes. By the time the tape was off there was a loud gasp for air and some constant rambling. Sherlock stopped surveying the area and encountered the man. "Explain!"

"She-"

"No, John. Explain. Now!" His voice seemed anxious.

"Boss. Angry. Didn't like our little slip up. Coming for us. All of us." The voice was harsh and weak. Like it was slowly fading.

"Who do you work for?" The man's head dropped, like he was beginning to pass out. "Who do you work for?"

Sherlock's voice was louder the second time and John didn't want to argue with him. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't listen and from his spot he could try and analyse the medical situation. So far it didn't look positive. The area around the eyes and mouth indicated a slow form of poisoning taking place. Backed up by the yellowing of the skin. With no access to an antidote or to even the actual poison the man was, in all sense, doomed. "Note," the man spluttered. "He left a not-"

He voice faded and he went limp in John's arms. As he was slowly lowered to the floor John tried to find a pulse.

It was too late.

"John," Sherlock snapped, "He's gone. Give up."

John, still on his knees, looked up at Sherlock. Agony and rage filled his eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock noticed, John looked like an old man. Something had changed.

"I know, Sherlock." John sighed. "I just hoped there was something I could do."

"What did he say? Something about..."

"The note?"

"The note... Where was it?"

"He pointed that way," John gestured. Sherlock slunk off to find the note, leaving John with the dead man's body. John ran his fingers over the man's eyebrows. Gently, John shut the dead man's eyes. His hands took in the man's face. A sudden sadness over took John. Death wasn't nice, it wasn't friendly, and it wasn't kind. Death tore people apart, it was harsh and nasty. Death made John sick.

"John?" Sherlock called from the other corner of the room, "I've found something."

"Oh?" John mumbled back, laying the man down on the cold floor once more. "What is it?"

"It's plain white paper, common, black ink from a biro, page is covered with a nice script, it's cursive; clean, all of it." Sherlock mumbled. "I can't trace any of it."

"Just read it," John muttered, "Tell me what this mad man wants."

"Uh, I think you should read it. I'm not very good with poetry."

"It's a poem? God's sake, Sherlock, give it here."

Sherlock handed the paper to John who read the poem;

**Round and round the garden, **

**Can you hear the countdown? **

**It's ticking away, **

**Till the end of the day, **

**Till I've killed all my men. **

**Sherlock, Sherlock, you cannot run, **

**I'm just starting my bit of fun, **

**Months will pass but soon you'll see, **

**You and John cannot escape me.**

"What the fuck does that mean?" John shouted, "We can't escape him? We don't bloody have to! We'll beat him!" John's voice echoed in the room. His rage ended and he collapsed against the wall, limp and almost lifeless. "We'll beat him Sherlock."

"I know we will, John. Until then, it's just a fun game to play."

"You're almost as bad as this nutter." John laughed weakly.

Sherlock frowned at John before he took out his phone and dialled in a number. From where John stood he could hear the disapproving moan of Lestrade. This would probably cause him a great deal of paper work. Especially with the two gang members missing.

When Sherlock hung up he turned around and began to inspect the body. The clothing was searched and the tape examined. "Definitely our eldest man. He's six foot five and a half. Only a half. Always something. Clothing suggests body weight of sixteen stone. The wrists have two different types of blood stain. One is slightly browning. Old. The other is new. That's more than likely his own by the marks upon his wrist. The old has to be testing but I can bet you it is Penber's or maybe even Jo's." Sherlock leaped over the body and started to investigate the left hand. "The man from earlier was five foot seven. Our younger man. Late twenties, earl thirties. That's too gone. He's collected some skin under his fingernails. Unlikely but it might help." Standing up he rushed back over towards the light switch and pulled out his magnifying glass. "Smudge on the light switch. Finger print. Remember to get Lestrade on it."

John nodded, in taking all the information. A soft chuckle escaped his lips before he even had time to stop it. Sherlock had spun round and was shooting him a questioning look. "Fantastic?" John choked down his laughter remembering the situation. "Just, it's just like the old days. I shouldn't really laugh."

"You shouldn't," Sherlock nodded, "But you're only human."

"Oi!" John gasped, "you're human too."

"I know, John." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "It's not like I'd forget."

"You wanted to forget some other important stuff."

"Like what?"

"The Earth goes around the Sun..."

"But that's not important!"

"I beg to differ." John smiled smugly. His eyes shone as Sherlock glowered at him.

"Where the hell are you?" A voice echoed through the doorway.

"Greg?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock nodded in reply.

"Here." John called out. "You'll find us."

Greg peered around the door; he looked at Sherlock and John questioning them without a word. John and Sherlock stood next to each other, there was something behind them.

"Body?"

"Dead man. Poisoned. Gang member. Eldest." John said sharply, Lestrade nodded. "Two sets of blood stains. We'll need to have a look at 'um."

"We?"

"He." John said, nodding at Sherlock.

"Well, I'd expect that." Greg said grimly.

"Guess I'm just use to referring to us as one." John sighed a while later after Sherlock had disappeared to a corner of the room.

"John, be careful." Greg replied disappointingly.

"Well with this new killer I guess I sort of have to be." John smiled. "Send the stuff over to Molly, yeah?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled from nearer the door.

"I have to go," John pointed towards the door, breaking the seemingly awkward conversation. "I'll see you, Greg. We should get a pint soon."

"Yeah, see you soon, John." Lestrade watched as the duo walked away before retrieving his mobile out and quickly sending a brief text.

**Doesn't look good. On both cases. - GL**

"So where are we going exactly now?" John enquired as Sherlock walked at his usual rushed pace.

"Home. Nothing more we can do tonight. I need to analyse this note." Sherlock waved the white paper in his hand around. Just enough so it could catch John's eye before he pocketed it again.

"Does Greg know you have that?"

"What G- Lestrade doesn't know is probably for the best." John rolled his eyes. There was no reasoning with the man.

Sherlock sat in silence in the back of the taxi that John had found himself being bundled into. Sherlock was thinking, so John knew he should be quiet. He watched the people around them, outside the taxi, go about their daily lives. The taxi stopped at a red light and John found himself looking at a little blonde boy, about 5 or 6, who was holding a red balloon. He was the picture of innocence; one hand grasped tightly in his mother's hand and the other keeping his red balloon by his side. The boy's eyes locked on to John's gaze, he looked questioningly at the man in the taxi before grinning. John smiled back at the little boy. Sometimes there were things to smile about, even in the middle of a murder case.

"John."

"Yes?"

"Call Molly. We need her."

"What for?"

"Body. Her. Me. You. Examine." Sherlock waved the words away and rested his chin on his pointed fingers again. John pulled out his phone and called Molly, this was going to be another awkward encounter. He hadn't forgiven her for not telling him about Sherlock yet, and she hadn't forgiven herself, so her usual panicked self had become almost a complete mess.

The phone rang a few times because John finally heard the usual sound of Molly's voice. "Hello?"

"Erm, hi, Molly, it's John."

There was a slight pause. "Oh hi, John. You just caught me; I was just about to leave for the night."

Her voice seemed higher than usual. Almost panicky. "Ah well Sherlock wants to know if he can come examine the body that Greg will be bringing you later."

"Oh erm," it sounded like she had crashed into something. "You'll have to come tomorrow morning then."

"Alright, we'll see you then I guess."

"Yeah, bye, John."

"Bye, Molly." The phone clicked and John sighed in relief. Not overly bad. He supposed. "Tomorrow morning."

"Hmmm?"

"To examine the body. Tomorrow morning." John rolled his eyes. The man never did bloody listen.

"Oh right."

"What are we eating tonight?" He didn't feel like sitting awkwardly in a silent taxi for once. Conversation was needed.

"We?" Sherlock replied tentatively.

"Yes, we. You're eating today. Case or no case. From my point of watch it's been nearly four days and then probably some." John said firmly. There was no way Sherlock was going to win this one. The man needed to eat if he wanted the energy to continue with his case. "You need energy for Christ's sake."

He heard Sherlock moan from where he was sitting. It hadn't been the first time he had heard this speech and it wouldn't be the last.

Sherlock bounced up the stairs; the thrill of a new case energised him and he found himself thinking rather a lot more than he should about the "madman", as John had called his latest "fan", and what their eventual meeting would be like. John, on the other hand, trailed up the stairs. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to eat and relax, preferably without Sherlock displaying his musical talent.

"I'll make dinner today, shall I?" John sighed, shutting the front door behind him. "And, Sherlock, you're going to eat like a normal person. Just for one night."

There was no response to John, not even the usual sigh. John walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Milk, orange juice, marmalade, jam, beef, pork chops, tomatoes, mushrooms, celery, lettuce... Pork chops it was. He pulled the chops out of the fridge. He was honestly surprised that Sherlock hadn't put any of his experiments in the fridge yet, there were no eyes or fingers in the fridge and surely that wouldn't last long.

Sherlock began playing his violin. A fast jig of some sort danced into the kitchen, John smiled as he listened. This was a happy Sherlock. It seemed that despite the threat of food the man was in a good mood, which put John in a good mood too.


	23. Chapter 23

_Comments at the end today._

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><p>It didn't take long for John to start preparing the pork chops. Armed with a recipe he had learnt from Mrs Hudson a while back he darted around the kitchen trying to look for olive oil. In that kitchen it was near impossible to find anything where it was actually meant to be.<p>

As John searched the cupboards he realised that he didn't have the correct seasoning for the pan-fried chops he was preparing. He didn't feel like going down to the shops. Especially after the day he had had. He just wanted to relax. Even if just for a couple of minutes. Mrs Hudson would probably have what he was looking for. After all she was the one who gave him the recipe. "Sherlock," he called out into the living room where the detective was still playing his cheerful jig upon the violin. "I'm going downstairs to borrow something from Mrs Hudson. I won't be long, okay?"

There was no reply. Not like he expected anything else. When he finally found himself downstairs he found out that Mrs Hudson wasn't in her flat. It was too late for her to be anywhere else so he gathered she must be next door at the café with her somewhat boyfriend. Stepping out the door he went to make the quick journey next door when he was stopped dead in his tracks and began laughing at the thing he spotted on the floor.

There was a sheep sat outside of the cafe. Not an actual sheep, but a felt cut out. The felt cut out was smaller than an A4 piece of paper, and a dark grey, but it looked exactly like that sheep that was sometimes on the telly as he skipped through the channels. What was it called? Sh... Sharon? No, it was a boy. Sean? Shawn? One or the other. It was so ridiculously out of place that John couldn't help but laugh. He wiped his eyes and walked into the cafe, still chuckling to himself.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called, unable to see her from the entrance. "Hello?"

Mrs Hudson's head popped out of the kitchen, a bright beam on her face. Her eyes were red and puffy, she'd been crying recently. "Yes, dearie?"

"I need some herbs for... I'm not disturbing anything, am I?"

"No, dearie. I was just cleaning up the kitchen."

"Oh, okay." John nodded, aware that she was lying, but saying nothing. "I needed some herbs for the pan-fried pork chop recipe you told me about. It's just that I'm not in the mood to go down to the shops..."

"One of those days then?"

"I'm afraid so," John nodded, "and I'll be having a lot more."

"Sherlock does that to you." Mrs Hudson laughed, a forced note creeping into her voice.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hudson?" John asked. He hadn't seen her behave like this in a while. It was terribly concerning.

"Me, dear? Oh I'm fine." She smiled before hurry into the kitchen and returning with a little jar of herbs in her hand. "Here you are and remember not to use too much okay?"

John stared at her questionably before turning into a smile and nodding. "Okay, Mrs Hudson. I best get back up to him."

"Alright, you take care."

"You too." He smiled, leaving the café. Her gaze didn't leave until he had exited through the door and waved a swift goodbye. She then retreated into the kitchen and out of sight. John sighed. He didn't like seeing her like that. Good old Mrs Hudson who had been so strong for him when he needed it. It wasn't right.

He slowly made his way back upstairs to hear the sounds of violin plucking carrying through the stairwell. Just like Sherlock. All that talent and not using it correctly. When he bothered to play it was beautiful but the rest of the time John felt like popping his ear drums. That was definitely the one thing he hadn't missed.

Sherlock didn't notice when he walked back into the flat. He doubted Sherlock had actually even noticed he had gone missing. Walking into the kitchen he saw nothing had been moved. Just the way he liked it. "I'm back by the way!"

Sherlock didn't reply, he picked up his bow and continued playing his mournful violin again.

"Not that you'd care." John muttered to himself. Sherlock stopped playing mid-note, he span around and looked at John with an expression of surprise.

"Not that I'd... Care?" He frowned, "John, I hope you realise that I counted every step you took. I know you went to Mrs Hudson's house, but she wasn't in, so you went to the cafe. You spent some time outside of the cafe before entering. I know that you talked to Mrs Hudson for exactly two minutes before coming back here."

John raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "I guess you do care then."

"Mmm." Sherlock nodded, picking up his violin and starting to play again. This time the notes were less sad, less stressed. These notes could almost have been happy. Least it wasn't the plucking John had heard coming up the stairs. Nor was it the jig from earlier. Which John was thankful for. He loathed that piece.

John continued to cook, using the herbs exactly as he remembered Mrs Hudson had instructed I'm to. He looked at the pork that was now frying gently.

"Dinner's almost ready."

Sherlock didn't reply, he continued to play his tune.

"Sherlock, it's almost time to eat."

Again, there was no reply from Sherlock.

"Fine, be like that. But you're going to eat tonight." John sighed, dishing the meat and vegetables onto two plates and setting them down on the new table.

John finally recognised the piece Sherlock was playing. It was drawing close to the aria and also the ending so it would be best to wait until the man finished before he forced Sherlock to eat. Before John had gone downstairs the music had been completely cheerful so the sudden change was odd. Either way John didn't want to question it. It had been so long since he had heard playing like that live. He had often listened to pieces on CD but they seemed to take away the emotion Sherlock managed to portray. That and the memories stung. Now it was so real again that he couldn't stand to get upset.

The aria ended and Sherlock lowered his violin with a satisfied sigh. It was good to have time to contemplate his thoughts. To have time to indulge in his violin. "Now you've finished playing you can get to the table."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Surely John hadn't forgotten his ways that easily. No food until a case was over. He had to wait until all the men who killed Jo and injured Penber were located. It wouldn't take more than a day. At most. "Really, John?" He asked sarcastically without turning. "You know my methods."

"Yes and I know how much of an insufferable git you are after a bleeding case due to the massive crash down you have. Due to the fact you cut out sleeping and eating. Get to this table now."

Sherlock sighed, there was no was no way to convince John that food was unnecessary and a waste of his time. He bought himself to the table, unwilling to eat anything.

"Is this another one of those things 'normal' people do?"

"Eating every day? Yes, Sherlock, it is." John snapped, placing a hot plate in front of him. The meat was cooked to absolute perfection, Sherlock noticed. Despite his protestations, John was a good cook.

"Oh goodie." He sighed, looking down at the meal in front of him. John pulled a chair back and sat down opposite him. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, Sherlock." John looked up from his meal, leaving the knife buried in the pork chop on his plate. "You have to eat."

Sherlock looked down at the chop like it was a foreign beast that needed full examining. He prodded it with his fork; seeing that there was little he could do but eat, he ruefully began cutting it. Showing the slightly pink insides of the white meat. The bone made a sharp crack and he split it. John looked up, a mouthful of pork halfway to his mouth and a curious look on his face.

"I told you, John. My rules."

"I don't care about the rules. Eat." John said forcefully.

"John, I real-"

There was a sharp knock at the door and Sherlock, usually so unwilling to entertain anyone, leapt to his feet.

"I'll get that, John." He smiled, "You just keep eating."

John sighed as Sherlock went to answer the door. The man would do literally anything to get out of eating. It was frustrating. Especially when the doctor part of him was basically screaming at him to sort Sherlock out. He had finally got to have a bite of his pork chop when Sherlock returned to the kitchen, Greg trailing behind him. "Oh," he said guilty, looking at the abandoned meal on the table. "I'm interrupting, aren't I?"

"Y-"

"No, ignore John." Sherlock snapped at John quickly before turning back. "Go."

"Go?" Greg replied sounding a little puzzled.

John shook his head, continuing to eat his dinner. "Yes. Go. It's obvious why you are here. Look at the way your coat hangs!"

"Sherlock, how can tha-"

"Shut up, John."

Sighing John went back to his meal. Feeling only slightly a bit awkward. "There's another one. Six two. Mid thirties. Sixteen stone. Found around the corner from the warehouse. Dead. Will you come?"

There was a momentary silence as Sherlock stood there contemplating his actions. "Alright. Car outside?" Greg nodded. "Right. John?"

"No. I'm eating my dinner. I'm sure you won't need me to tell you that the sod's heart isn't beating any longer." John grumbled looking up at Sherlock. "I'll stay here. Have some normal 'boring' things to sort out."

Another moment of silence. Obviously Sherlock is trying to figure out how important I am currently, though John. "Okay. I'll go with Lestrade. I'll text if I need you to do something." And with that he flew out of the flat. Picking up his coat and scarf as he left. Leaving Greg standing in the kitchen with John.

"Sorry, John. I didn't realise the time. Him not being exactly normal and all I didn't think you'd want to," he gestured to the food. "It's just urgent, y'know?"

Sighing as he stood up John took his plate over to the sink. "Yeah, I know." He turned around to face Greg. "Next time look at the time on that new watch of yours. You still need to tell me who gave you that." John picked up Sherlock's abandoned plate. "Jesus. They really are dropping like flies, aren't they?" He paused slightly. "Now get. Before the bastard downstairs gets irked because if he comes home being a miserable git I'm holding you personally responsible."

"I- yeah," Greg smiled sheepishly, looking down at his wrist. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Don't bring him home too late." John called after Greg as the man left the house. He heard the door shut. "Or he'll be a nuisance."

John sighed, looking down at the plates in front of him. And suddenly, he wasn't hungry. Something about the empty flat made him feel sick to his stomach; a feeling of being left, abandoned; something he really didn't enjoy.

Anger suddenly swelled in his chest. He slammed the plate into the sink, chipping the plate. Fracture lines swept across the plate, meeting in the middle. He picked up the plate and dropped it into the sink again. This time it shattered.

His anger gone, he looked down at the broken plate and the wasted food.

"Good one, genius." He muttered to himself, picking up the pieces of the plate. "Bloody brilliant."

His hand became filled with roughly half the pieces as he went over to the bin and deposited them inside. He wanted to yell but he couldn't. Who would he yell at? The skull? That would just be pathetic. He had every chance to go with them. He just needed time to think. Without the violin noises or the threat of explosions. He needed peace and quiet again yet it just felt so empty. He didn't like it one bloody bit. It was like he was lonely again and he hated it. When did he become so dependent on people? Then again it wasn't really people. Was it? When Sherlock was 'dead' he had felt lonely wherever he was. Even when surrounded by friends. Dying inside each day as the struggles became harder and harder to deal with. It was like he couldn't cope any longer. Like everything was piling up and causing him to buckle under. Then Sherlock came back and it was like all those feelings just disappeared. As if all the worries just went flying out the window. Now they were all flooding back.

Going back to the sink he continued to pick up the pieces left over. He caught his hand on the edge of one piece, producing a nick on the edge of his hand. Dropping the pieces, he had already collected, back into the sink he pulled his hand up to inspect. Blood already seeping from the wound. John found himself collapsing slowly onto the floor, running his intact hand through his hair. "God," he gasped. "When did my life get so pathetic?"

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><p><em>First off I warned you the 23rd chapter was doooooooomed. Also I would like to apologise. We've all got exams and everything and it's really time consuming so we're really stressed the moment.<em>

_Oh and that felt sheep we referenced? Well Rayne and I met up in London during April and we went to Speedy's and outside was this felt little sheep. We just had to use it in our thing. I have a photo for you too._

a2(DOT)sphotos(DOT)ak(DOT)fbcdn(DOT)net/hphotos-ak-ash4/301814_3606624294109_1528724403_3051371_1067706050_

_Links look horrible, and won't save properly, on this thing but yes. Have a sheep._


	24. Chapter 24

And another chapter for you. This one was much quicker than the last one. Would have been sooner however I have been getting in late everyday this week.

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><p>John sat on the floor for the best part of half an hour, letting the dark thoughts at the emptiness seep into his body. He started to shiver, which bought him out of the memories of Sherlock's death and the agonising time after it. God, was he still feeling this way less than a few days ago?<p>

"No use in wasting time, Watson." He muttered to himself. John pulled himself off of the floor and walked slowly, into the living room. He pulled his laptop along as he trailed to the desk. He flicked it on and inspected his hand closely. It was just a minor scratch, nothing that a plaster wouldn't fix. The computer hummed gently and flashed on.

John was absorbed in the newest blog post, (Sherlock's Back With A New 'Friend') and completely forgot the time. Soon it was drawing close to midnight and Sherlock still wasn't back. John shrugged and padded off to the bedroom where he dressed in his pyjamas and a robe.

Taking a detour to the kitchen to get a nice warm mug of tea, he returned to the desk and his laptop.

"Sherlock's Back With A New Friend... It doesn't sound... Good." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "What co-"

The bell at the front door buzzed sharply. Two quick jabs followed by a long drawn out wail. That meant only one thing; a client was on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street.

There was no chance of him being allowed to quickly get changed so he tightened the cord of his dressing gown and started making his way to the front door. The hall way was oddly dark at this time of night. Especially with none of the lights on. John gathered Mrs Hudson had gone to bed then and given up waiting up for Sherlock. He heard the distant sounds of ringing again and wanted to call out. Instead he opted for grumbling under his breath. "I'm coming. I'm coming."

Reaching the door at last John fumbled around to find the latch. It wasn't hard and he was soon opening the door. The light from the street lamps slowly pouring in. He didn't know what he expected to find. Whatever it was it wasn't this. On the top stairs a figure was supporting their weight against the door frame. One hand grasping their arm. The person looked of small build but he couldn't see their face. Before he got a chance to ask if they were alright the person looked up and stared into his eyes. It was a young woman. She looked petrified. "Help me?"

Falling forward she collapsed into John's arms. Shock over took him for a moment but his brain soon kicked it and he was carrying the woman upstairs. He would say she could not have weighed more than eleven stone. Once upstairs he laid her out on the sofa and ran to the kitchen to get his medical kit. After he got her sorted he would find time to quickly change. He just had to see to her now. After spotting some blood upon her shirt he raised the sleeve slightly to discover a small knife wound.

The bleeding wasn't extensive and it didn't look deep enough to have caused any real damage. More like a surface wound. The woman gasped with pain as he applied the antiseptic and he muttered a quiet apology. "Just lay still. I'm going to have to apply these stitches." The woman's face looked mortified. "Don't worry. Butterfly stitches. No needles. Promise. Now tell me, have you got a name?"

"Antonia." She gasped as John applied slight pressure to her side. "But my friends call me Toni."

"Right, Toni, I'm going to need you to lie perfectly still then afterwards you are going to need to tell me a few things. Okay?" She gave him a brisk nod as means of an understanding. "Alright. Remember, perfectly still."

After he was done John carefully put away all the things that had been bought out of his medical kit unnecessarily. He put it away and walked back to the girl on the sofa. He leaned on the back of his armchair, well aware of his semi dressed state.

Now that the pain and fear were gone from her face, John noticed that Toni was actually very pretty. Her eyes were light blue and her blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She was inspecting the damage to her arm when she noticed John watching her.

"You'll have to be careful with those." He nodded at her, "I don't want to have to stitch you up again. Even if just butterfly stitches."

"I- thank you... I guess you're John," She muttered, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "Can... Is Mr Holmes in?"

John looked at her, questioning her without saying a word, "No, Toni, he's not."

"Oh." She seemed genuinely disappointed, upset almost to the point of tears. "I... I need to talk to him."

"You can talk to me." John offered, standing up straight, "Just give me a second to get dressed. Do you want something to drink?"

"No, thank you." Toni mumbled, her eyes locked on the smiley face on the wall. She inspected the room, observing every oddity and strange collection. She stood up and, with her hand still firmly grasped around her bandaged arm, went to look at the wall. She could see bullet holes, circular entries into the wallpaper that had not been covered or replaced. She reached out to touch the yellow pain when a voice behind her made her jump.

"You think that's bad," John waved his hand at the smiley face, "you should meet the skull."

He was dressed in faded jeans and a striped black and blue jumper. A different man to the one in the robe, but still one she trusted.

"I guess I should introduce myself," John smiled, "Dr. John Watson, flatmate and pet blogger of Sherlock Holmes."

Toni laughed a tinkling sound that made John's smile wider. She found herself relaxing in John's presence; maybe she could tell him what was meant only for Mr Holmes.

"Now I may be only a little old doctor but maybe you could tell me how a nice girl like you got that knife wound to your arm?" John smiled comfortingly.

Toni smiled back weakly before nodding. She often read the Doctor's blog when she got the chance. When she wasn't hiding away in the underbelly of the city. It cheered her up almost. "I'm not the best of people, Doctor Watson. I've done some bad things in my time. Not that I wanted to. I had to." She sighed, looking up at John. "Recently I was made to do something I really didn't want to do. My Da, you see, he i- was very intimidating. Made me do things I never wanted to do. I was scared he'd hurt me." Toni gulped. Unsure whether to go on. John gave her a reassuring nod. Giving her a little more confidence. "My Da was contacted about a week ago. Got a job. He had these two thugs that worked for him but that weren't enough. He needed me. I'm good with my hands, right? Been picking locks since I was just a kid. So he needed me. I didn't know what he wanted! I thought it would be a quick robbery or something. I didn't want him to hurt me, Doctor. He had me pinned against the wall and he was yelling." Tears streamed down her face and John went over to the sofa to sit next to her. Hopefully it would make it easier for her. "So I went and it were some big fancy house too! I let them in but soon I heard yelling from inside. So I went and there was this other man. Just laughing. Whilst my Da and these thugs be- beat up this man. I stood there petrified. I closed my eyes and tried to block out the noise."

Toni stopped talking. Like it was difficult to carry on. John placed his hand upon her shoulder and smiled at her. "It's okay. Take your time."

"Well after that the man left and then Da pulled me out. The thugs were following us. Laughing all the way. They dragged me to this fish and chip shop. The woman behind the counter asked if I were alright because I had tears down my face. Da yelled at her and we left." Toni paused. "Then Da got a call. Another job. Same man. Said we were to burn the chip shop and ki- kill the old lady. I didn't want to! I refused to go! Locked myself in the cupboard." Toni looked at John. Like she was pleading at him to believe her. "Da came back later that night. Said we had to go. Run away. Only one of the thugs were with him and I got worried. He said that we were in danger. Had to run. I didn't question it. Then I heard that one of Da's thugs died at the chip shop. Then the other one got picked off when Da and I were on the tube! We didn't even see him get taken!" She took a deep breath. "Then Da told me to wait for him whilst he went somewhere. I waited for ages but he didn't show up. Then a knock came. It weren't my Da! He said my Da was dead. Said he had come to kill off the rest of the evidence. It was that man I saw laughing before! I ran but he cut me as I escaped. I ran all the way here! I know about you both! I thought you could help me." Toni looked down. "He spoke about you. Both of you. I thought if there was anywhere I could be right now it was here."

John waited until he was certain Toni had finished speaking before he decided to give her an answer. "Well it's a good thing you came here then. You look shattered. Why don't you go have a lie down in my room and I'll give Sherlock a ring. That way we'll be able to help you. Together."

**Sherlock, come home now.**

John looked down at the text on his phone. He was going to be in trouble if Sherlock was busy. But this case, it was something special, wasn't it? John pressed send. He watched the text send and waited.

His phone began to vibrate against his palm. He quickly pulled his hand up and looked at the reply. Typically Sherlock.

**Why should I? - SH**

John sighed and looked down at the worn seat beneath him. He gnawed on his lip and breathed heavily though his nose. How much was too much to tell Sherlock?

His phone buzzed again. Double texts. Oh, how very Sherlock.

**Sign your texts, John - SH**

And not even an important double text. John sighed. How many times had he said that signing his texts was pointless, as Sherlock had his number saved on Sherlock's phone? There was no reasoning with this man.

**There's someone here about the case. An ex gang member. - JW**

John paused; wondering if that was enough to pique the madman's interest. He sent another text containing only three more words.

**It's a girl - JW**

Where the first text had failed to interest Sherlock, John could almost feel Sherlock's surprise at the fact that his last gang member was a female.

**I'll be there. Ten minutes. - SH.**

Exactly as he had expected. A small, sly smile crossed John's face. Sometimes, getting one over on Sherlock and his amazing deduction was just too easy.

John went to his room and knocked on the door. "Toni, Sherlock's on his way." There was no reply. She must have fallen asleep, he thought. Going back to the kitchen he switched the kettle on before turning to the sink. Bits of plate still remained. He shouldn't have left it for so long. John began to pick up the pieces, being careful so he didn't cut himself again, and placed them within the bin. No doubt Sherlock would be able to tell when he got in anyway.

Turning towards his desk he noticed that his laptop was still on. That silly title he had considered glaring back at him. Maybe he should just scrap the whole thing. It probably contained too much detail anyway. That was the problem last time, wasn't it? Too much detail? Underestimating who was reading it? With a huff John closed the lid and went to finish making his tea from earlier. He's rewrite it when he was in a better mood and left with more free time. All that was left to do now was waiting for Sherlock to come home.

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><p>One thing before you go, guys. I was wondering if anybody would read all the useless Sherlock ficlets and things I've written if I posted a story with multiple chapters with them all in and stuff?<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

First off can I just say how sorry we are for how much later than usual this is. It's examination time so all our time had literary been absorbed by revision and such. We forgot to talk to each other for awhile. However here it is and I hope you enjoy. Hopefully twenty-six will come sooner than this one did.

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><p>Several minutes later Sherlock stormed through door and began scanning the room. Obviously looking for Toni. "She's in my room, Sherlock. She's taking a lie down."<p>

"Inconvenient. Wake her up."

John sighed jumping out of his chair. "Fine. I'll go get her. Just go nice on Toni. Be less..."

"Me?"

"Yes. That would be lovely." Making his way to his room John sighed. He has best warn Toni before she got into the living room. He knocked three times before yelling through the door. "Toni! He's here!"

Inside he heard the shuffling of somebody falling out of bed and swearing under their breath. The door creaked open and Toni appeared. Her eyes appeared redder than earlier. Obviously she had been crying. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay. Come on, lets go see Sherlock." And with that they both made their way into the living room.

Sherlock wasn't exactly the most civil person when he saw Toni. He announced her exact weight without consideration and even hinted at some other personal things. Then again she was prepared for it. On the way back to the living room John had said Sherlock would over compensate for the fact he got something wrong. "BUT YOU'RE A WOMAN!"

"Yes?" She replied tentatively. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Your footprints indicate those of a man." Sherlock frowned, turned around to look out of the window.

"Da didn't raise a girly girl, Mr Holmes." She said with slightly more confidence, Sherlock turned around. "I was raised to be practical. It's easier to get around. To change. To hide. You of all people should know that and the way I walk shouldn't have been the basis of your assumption of my gender. You keep that skull but I don't go around saying that you are covering up for some absent parental figure in your childhood by talking to it like a loved one." There was an awkward silence. John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Toni. Unsure of what was going to occur next. "Sorry, Mr Holmes, but back off a little. My Da just died and I've come to help you. The least you can do is show a little consideration."

Sherlock didn't say anything for awhile. Instead he stood there. Staring at Toni who had the body language of a much more confident person now. "Apologises." He paused, gesturing to John's chair as he sat down in his. "Sit and talk."

Toni slouched in John's chair and looked at her feet for a second, gathering her thoughts, before looking at Sherlock and sighing slightly. She began telling her story; less emotion and less words were spent on this telling of the tale than the time that she told John.

Sherlock leaned forwards from his chair, almost touching the young lady. His eyes flickered back and forth, memorising her every move as she matched her words with gestures. Sherlock nodded every now and then, clenching his jaw when something conflicted with an already thought of and picked though plan.

"So that's it, Mr Holmes." Toni said, leaning back into John's seat. "That's my story. Da told me to keep it quiet like, but I can't. Not with 'im gone. I need you to get the bastard that caused it and lock 'im up."

John hovered behind Sherlock's chair, his fingers drumming against his thigh. Sherlock shot a glance at him, and he stopped drumming.

"Now that you're done," Sherlock said, "we need to put you in a safe house."

"A safe house?" Toni asked, her eyebrows almost disappearing into her hairline. "I ain't going nowhere, Mr Holmes, until the man that killed me Da is behind bars."

"John..." Sherlock muttered, getting up and walking to the window, "explain it."

"The gang members all died, yes?" John said quietly to Toni, ignoring Sherlock's brooding.

"Yeah. They were murdered." Toni swallowed, hate and pain glimmering in her eyes.

"And what did they do to you?" John said calmly, like he was trying to make friends with a wild, wounded animal.

"Someone tried to kill me." Toni growled.

"And they probably followed you here." John stated, flat out.

"Probably?" Sherlock snorted, "I can tell you what car they're in."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John snapped over his shoulder. "Let me finish."

Toni laughed quickly, but muffled it as John turned back to look at her.

"But they followed you, and they'll try again. So, we need to take you somewhere safe."

"Okay." Toni nodded, "I understand."

Pausing for a moment John wondered where on Earth they were going to place her until she was safe. He didn't know that was for sure. He didn't even know how they were going to get her there. Considering if she was followed. Well no, he knew that was actually true. Sherlock, with his big mouth, had confirmed that. He didn't believe that Toni would go with the Government approach and be placed in some weird locked away building. It needed to be more homely. More personal. There was no way John would trust Sherlock to come up with the place. It would be highly unsuitable. He only knew one person. Was that the best idea? "If you are thinking about the place I think you are," Sherlock announced from the window. "It actually might be a good idea. However unfortunately we shall have to include Mycroft."

John took a double take before nodding. Well that was sorted then, he guessed. He turned back to Toni, smiling reassuringly. "Looks like we have a place suitable already. I just have to sort it out with them and then we can get all the other parties involved and get you safe."

"Thanks, John. Mr Holmes." She smiled weakly. "I really appreciate it. Erm ... I hate to be a bother but it's been a long forty eight hours. I ain't slept much. Would it be possible to lay down for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure." John smiled, "You know where my bedroom is. Please, feel free to spend the night there."

"I don't wanna be a bother..." Toni muttered, a slightly worried look on her face.

Sherlock absent-mindedly drummed his fingers on his hips. "It won't be a bother. John can get into my bed. I won't sleep tonight. Not when I'm on a case."

"He's a little odd." John mouthed at Toni. She giggled and covered her face with both hands. Sherlock turned around a little surprised and raised an eyebrow. John shook his head and stood up.

"If you want to go to bed, do go any time."

"Right," Toni nodded, stifling her laughter, "I really will be off to bed now. Thank you again, John, Mr Holmes."

"No problem." John smiled, watching the young girl leave the room. He turned his gaze to Sherlock. "So... Really?"

"Really." Sherlock nodded, "It will be the perfect place and I'm sure we can convince my darling," he stressed the word, "brother to loan us a security force."

"Well... As long as she's not hurt." John mumbled.

"I guarantee she will not be harmed." Sherlock smiled, "And I can understand how you feel. Even though I myself have no use of emotions, I'd like to think I have somewhat of a collection of knowledge. When it comes to situations like this," he paused, "I think your emotional state is perfectly acceptable."

John sighed and shrugged, "Thanks, I guess. But we are talking about you putting my baby sister in danger. And you know I will never forgive you if she is hurt." His face was suddenly darker than ever. This was a side to John Sherlock had never seen. And, if he was anyone else but Sherlock Holmes, it would have scared him.

"I promise, John. I give you my word that no harm will come to Harry."

"Then I guess I'll call her."

"Obviously not now," Sherlock replied as he jumped into his chair in his usual crouched position. "It is past one in the morning. Harriet goes to bed early."

"How do you know wh- Oh sod it." John muttered as he walked over to stand behind his chair opposite Sherlock. Why did he even bother to ask any more? He clearly didn't learn his lesson three years ago. "Just go easy on Toni too, yeah? Last thing we want is two pissed females. It is bad enough with Harry. We don't need another one, especially with a waist and arm injury, yelling at us."

Sherlock remained silent momentarily. His hands pressed together in the thinking position he had come accustom to. "Indeed. Hormone imbalances within women are not pleasant experiences."

"Right," John said tentatively. Unsure how Sherlock had managed to experience that. "I'm going to bed. We can ring Mycroft tomorrow."

"Something tells me he already knows," Sherlock said a tad loudly that usual. Turning round slightly to look at the top of the bookcase then looked around for John's 'delightful' paperweight. Shaking his head John made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom, leaving Sherlock in the living room. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a decent night's sleep. Without nightmares or risks of explosions or murder or perhaps a young injured woman turning up on his doorstep.

It was clear Sherlock had not yet slept within his bed since his return. It was exactly the way John had left it. Yet the room had the returned smell of Sherlock. Not like before. Not like when it had gone. John could collapse into bed and wrap himself around the smell. Comforting him from the rest of the world. Even if just for a couple of hours.

Sherlock pondered the case into the early hours of the morning. His mind palace was time consuming, but a useful resource. He would never tire of it. But soon, he tired of the case.

John had often wondered what Sherlock did in lieu of sleep. This was what he did, this was Sherlock's way of coping.

Sherlock, in his mind palace, padded to the locked door. There was only one locked door, and it was the only one he wished to keep. The other places in his mind palace flared in and out of existence depending on his need of them. But this room, with the door that looked like the one to used to enter his bedroom, was a permanent fixture. He opened the door and the memories hit him. The ones that made him happy. This is what Sherlock did instead of sleeping, he delved himself in happy memories.

Within that room Sherlock felt like he finally belonged somewhere. It was hard for him to leave that door open. So he didn't. He locked it away. Not letting it interfere with himself. It was weird. For a sociopath Sherlock felt somewhat normal inside this room. Like he was just like everybody else. Which was a pathetic idea, maybe even dream, of course. He could never be like others. The rest of the boring world who could not think. Who lacked structure and observation. Happiness was a distraction. Those memories were a distraction. Ones he didn't need whilst working. Instead it was a substitute for sleep. Sherlock often found the burst of dopamine supplied to him better stimulation than sleep anyway.

A few of the memories derived from his childhood. The times before he had been abandoned and betrayed. The times before everything changed. Before he realised the values of the mind and loneliness. There wasn't many of those considering his carefree days ended when he was barely even seven. After that there were only a few. All occurring after the time he met John. The first person to truly understand him. He was a good friend indeed.

John rolled over in the bed, the smell of Sherlock releasing the tension and pain that had built up inside him. He was sound asleep and his breathing was calm and regular; he wasn't having a nightmare tonight.

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his toes unconsciously. His mind was occupied and his body felt the need to control itself for a while; perhaps to see if it could still perform normal functions that Sherlock Holmes deemed pointless. Sherlock's rocking slowed as he reached one of his happiest memories. His eyes, that were already glazed over, took on a look that no one had ever seen cross his face before; Sherlock seemed wanting, whimsical almost.

Toni sighed in her sleep. The bandage wrapped around her arm prevented her from getting as comfortable as she wished, but pure fatigue had dragged her down to the depths of sleep and there she lay, awaiting the dawn.

221B Baker Street was silent. No one stirred from their nocturnal activities. They did not see the dark blue Audi park outside, nor did they see the man leaning against the window opposite them. They did not see him stub out his cigarette and send a text message. No one saw, because no one was watching. But this simple action would cause Mr Holmes and Dr Watson plenty more strife.


	26. Chapter 26

Here's another instalment of TSABAC.

Sorry, Parodys. Can't let anything away. *wink*

Yes, the title is from Les Mis. We're amazing Les Mis fans over here.

Sorry we were a little late. I mean, we tried but then I'm an idiot and took forever to reply to this and everything. It's here now though.

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><p>When morning broke John rolled around, the sheets swallowing him up. For once he felt refreshed. Like he had had a decent night's sleep. No panics in the night and no worries. Despite everything that lied ahead. He had slept somewhere that felt like home to him, surrounded by the welcoming smell of Sherlock. There was only one problem. Like something was missing. John had a sinking feeling that he knew what that was or really who that was. But there was nothing he could do about that.<p>

John remained in bed for an extra few minutes, taking time to appreciate where he was seeing as it most likely would not happen again. After awhile he realised that he had left Sherlock's old scarf within his bed. Hopefully Toni hadn't found it or just didn't ask about it. It wasn't something he wished to explain really.

Making his way to the kitchen John placed the kettle on before making his way into the living room. Sherlock was staring down into the street below. Focused on a group of cars. "He's still here."

"Oh," John replied. "Well erm, the sooner Mycroft gets here the better then, right?"

"I suppose." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He loathed asking his brother for help. "He could arrive by ten."

John considered going into his bedroom to find some clothes, but decided against it until Toni had woken up. She was in desperate need of rest and having an intruding man, even if she was in his bedroom, would not help anything. Hopefully, the deal could be made quickly and she would be safe soon.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, absentmindedly, "you have left some jeans, a shirt or two and a rather fetching pullover in my bedroom."

John flushed a deep pink. This was only adding to his discomfort; mainly though, he was uncomfortable with being wrapped in the scent of the man after sleeping in his bed. The smell of Sherlock was one that hadn't clung to John in what seemed like forever. It was tinted with, to John at least, both immeasurable happiness, elation and general freedom from everything, and unfathomable sadness and despair.

"I'll... Go get dressed then." John smiled, slipping back out of the room and into Sherlock's. The bed was messy and unmade, very unSherlock and very John-like; there was a crumpled shirt on the floor from a week or two ago, it had roughly two hours wear and would suffice until Toni woke. He dressed in the old shirt, and the clothes he had worn yesterday. He did feel a little uncomfortable in the clothes, but desperate times and all that. He grinned to himself because, despite everything, Sherlock was back. And Sherlock being back was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him, apart from meeting the man in the first place.

Looking at the clock in Sherlock's room John could see it was only eight in the morning. Only two hours waiting to do then. Quickly John made the Sherlock's bed; he had to think of it as Sherlock's again, up and collected his washing. Luckily Sherlock's washing basket still remained in the corner and as far as John was aware Mrs Hudson did the washing on the same day every week. He still had a day for that yet so he had a reason to leave his washing in there.

Upon exiting the bedroom John found Sherlock to still be in his position by the window. Though apparently just staring into fine air. John made his way into kitchen and started to prepare the cups for when the kettle finally boiled. "Sherlock," he called out into the living room. "Tea?"

"Coffee. Black, tw-"

"Two sugars, yes. I know." John smirked to himself. The exact same way every time. John hadn't forgotten. Probably never would. It was like the minute details about Sherlock were embedded upon his mind and he couldn't shift them. Not that he wanted to of course. Once the kettle had boiled John finished making the drinks and took them through into the living room, placing Sherlock's coffee on top of the day before's newspaper. He then chose to sit in his usual chair at the wooden table by the window. According to his watch they still had awhile to wait.

Sherlock looked at John; not just looking though, and he wasn't quite observing. He was noticing, for the first time, a few things that he hadn't noticed about John before. Like, for example, John had five hairs on his head that stood at a different angle to every other, and they would not change that. He also, as another example, had his trousers hung lower than he would have had in the military; a sign that he was growing detached from that way of life. Somehow, these minuscule details managed to absorb Sherlock for an unusually long amount of time. He looked at the clock face of John's watch. Only half an hour left.

"The girl." He smiled at John. "Doesn't she need waking, before Mycroft arrives?"

"Yeah." John nodded, standing up. He slipped one hand into his pocket and walked towards his room. He rapped gently on the door with his knuckles.

It was answered by Toni, who was wrapped in his duvet. She looked tired still and, although the night's rest had done well, it had not done enough to cure her of her bags.

"'Ello." She mumbled, smiling.

"We're going to have a guest in half an hour, so if you want a shower or something, just go ahead and sort it all out." John smiled his voice quiet and soothing. "I'm cooking breakfast for myself in second, do you want some? It's pretty much going to be a full English."

"Thanks." Toni grinned impishly. She was beginning to wake up. "I'll take you up on that offer."

"Bathroom's that way," John gestured. "You'll get there eventually. Can I quickly run in and grab some clean clothes?" Toni nodded, letting John in so he could get the clothes he wanted. "Join us in the living room when you're ready," he smiled before making his way back into the living room. Sherlock was exactly where he left him though he had obviously gotten changed. "I'll be making breakfast in a moment. I don't suppose you want any?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Absolutely not." He reached down to pick up his cup of coffee before frowning at the cup. "It's cold."

"Well obviously," John rolled his eyes. "I made that for you an hour and a half ago. You were just staring into space so I left it on the side. It then went cold."

Not wishing to hear the reply John sneaked back into Sherlock's room to change quickly before returning to the kitchen to start breakfast. Mrs Hudson had obviously been shopping and replaced the food in the middle of the night as the fridge was reasonably filled. Compared to the empty state it was left in after dinner the night before. Thankfully he had plenty of time to prepare breakfast for both Toni and himself before Mycroft would arrive.

Toni sat down at the table, her hair was still wet and she was dressed in the clothes she had arrived in last night. They were crumpled from lying on the floor of John's bedroom.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he looked out of the window. The view was normally rather unspectacular, but today he found it fascinating. There was still a blue Audi parked across the road, not one of Mycroft's and not from anyone he knew... His poet must be watching.

John served out breakfast for himself and Toni. He put the plates down and seated himself.

"Isn't he going to eat?" Toni nodded at Sherlock's back.

"No, he never eats when he's on a case." John sighed, "And you're only here because he's on a case."

Toni nodded, chewing her fried mushrooms with care. They were surprisingly good; fried in butter with some rosemary and various other herbs.

John smiled as he watched her devour the plate of food. He pushed his meal around, picking at the fried mushrooms and slicing the sausages with care, only to watch them cool rapidly until they became unappetising. At least, he thought to himself, someone in the flat was enjoying their food.

Toni ate half a fried tomato in one gulp, mopping up the juices with a slice of French toast.

"You're a very," she nibbled the toast, "very good cook, John."

John blushed slightly, he was used to eating alone and so had never thought that his skills were anything special. He just had a weakness for the good ol' English breakfast and so had practised many times. "Thanks." He smiled weakly.

"I mean it," Toni laughed, "if I stay here much longer I'll get fat!"

John smiled a genuine, massive Cheshire Cat smile. "I wouldn't allow my cooking to ruin your figure."

"If all your cooking is as good at that was, you're welcome to."

Toni's voice reached Sherlock and he turned his head slightly, listening to the conversation. John was doing that damned, irritating social thing he did again. That thing he did to go on dates. What had he called it? Flirting.

The word had been filed away in the back of Sherlock's mind, only kept there in case he needed it again at some point in the future. So far, it hadn't come in handy at all. Waste of time and space, but most things were unless you were in the right situation.

"John," Sherlock announced, still not completely facing the pair. "I believe it is time that you ring that person, John."

John nodded. He hadn't talked to them in over a week. If he thought about it it would probably be nearer to three weeks. He just didn't have the heart any more. "Excuse me a moment, Toni, I just have to go ring someone. Sherlock, I'll do it in your room," he stood up and made his way to Sherlock's room. Once inside John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone before letting out a deep breath. It was now or never. He dialled the number and placed it to his ear, listening to the rings.

"Hello?"

"It's me," John said weakly.

"John!" The reply came. "I was wondering when you were going to ring me!"

"Yeah, sorry about that," he shuffled his feet. "Hi, Harry." Recently he really disliked ringing Harry. Ever since she had gotten better and recovered from her alcohol issue he had just deteriorated. It hadn't been easy for him. Watching the sister he had supported for so long suddenly become the strong one whilst he was the emotional mess that, apparently, needed constant care. In the end he had refused to see Harry. He knew it wasn't her fault. He was grieving but he just couldn't handle it.

"John! I saw the news. Sherlock is back! Why didn't you ring me?" Her asked full of concern.

John paused. He knew the answer but it would hurt her. It was better now. Somehow. He wasn't so pathetic. "I was being... well you know before he got back. Then when he did there was no time. I've nearly been exploded, shot at and confused as fuck."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Language, Watson." She giggled, "I kid of course. Jesus. Five bloody minutes and it's the same again. Can't believe you loved that sort of thing or even bloody missed it."

"It wasn't exactly the lifestyle, Harry, and you know it," he sighed. "I'm not ringing about that though."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We need your help, Harry."

There was another moment of silence. "What do you need?"

"The spare room and enough generosity to accept a young girl into your home." John paused. "You're the safest place we know, Harry. Please?"

"When will you be bringing her round?" Harry asked, not showing any decision in her voice.

"Today. Possibly tonight."

"Jesus, John! More of a warning would be nice," she exclaimed. "Bring her round. I still owe you big time."

He did try to protest but she soon shut him up. "Thanks, Harry. Look I have to go. I've left Sherlock with Toni and you know how he is."

Harry sighed at the other end of the phone. "I know, big bro. See you later. We'll talk then."

"Yeah, we'll talk then," he rolled his eyes. That would be eventual. "See you later."

Placing his phone back into his pocket John lent against the back of the door and let out a deep breath. Harry, of course, knew everything. She knew everything before John knew anything. Like anybody else out there apparently. John remembered the first day she had mentioned it. He had cursed at her and stumbled off to his room. Even if he did what was the point? He was in love with a dead man. Well not any more. Of course they would talk. Hopefully it would be brief. It hurt enough hiding it as it was. He didn't want his sister's pity. It was bad enough Mrs Hudson and Gregory knew. His sister knew how to manipulate him into talking and that scared him.

Finally he made his way back to the living room. He couldn't leave Toni there with Sherlock alone for too long. He wasn't exactly the best company if you weren't use to it. When he entered the living room he saw Toni sitting on the sofa staring at the two chairs on the other end of the room. In his usual chair sat Sherlock. Silent as usual, glaring ahead. In John's chair sat someone else. The familiar tone swam through the air. "Good morning, John."

"Good morning, Mycroft."


	27. Chapter 27

Hey guys, sorry it was so late late again. In all honesty I forgot to reply to Rayne. Silleh Jessica I know. Here it is now and I've started the next chapter already. SORRY I'M SO FORGETFUL SOMETIMES recently. Hope you enjoy it.

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><p>John huffed as he threw himself next to Toni on the sofa, no elegance was required. The Holmes brothers made him feel like an inelegant bumbling fool anyway, no point in trying to hide it. Or even worse, trying to deny it.<p>

"So," Mycroft smiled pointedly, motioning at the young girl sat next to John, "this is the female you would like protected."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded sharply.

John continued for him, knowing that Mycroft would already know all the facts but he felt that he had to pretend, for Toni's sake, that these boys were almost normal. Otherwise she'd be entrusting her safety, and her life, to a pair of nut jobs and an ex army doctor. "We want to put her with my sister. Harry has agreed to it all, and accepts that she will take responsibility for Toni's sanity." He cracked a grin here, trying to ease the tension building in his chest. "She wants nothing from you, but we need security. We need to be alerted if anyone would dare to touch Toni. She is a... Key witness and a valuable asset on that case of yours." He tried not to sneer at the thought of making sense to Mycroft Holmes, but knew that he wouldn't give them the security unless he had a good reason to.

"Very well." Mycroft nodded solemnly. "You shall have no more than twenty men over four weeks. Any attempts to break security procedures and you know what happens, Sherlock," he cracked a small grin before composing himself. "If you do not have this solved by then, I will have to terminate this matter in its entirety. Understood?"

Without waiting for a reply, he walked out of the flat. The black umbrella in his hand making a clicking sound against the floor, like a cane would've.

John puffed his cheeks and leaned back, "That could've gone worse."

Toni raised an eyebrow. "That was good?"

"For those two, yes." John snorted, remembering some of the times he had been with the brothers and felt the tension in the air. "Oh, that was positively delightful for those boys."

"A month though..." Toni shook her head. "That's not long... Will, um... Can you do it?" She directed this question at Sherlock who was staring out of the window, his eyes glassed over.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock flapped the idea away as though it was annoying him, "it will take less than a month. I just need a few more pieces of information."

John sighed, he knew what was about to be asked of Toni. Maximisation of brain capacity to recall information and memories from with the cranium or something like that anyway. He had heard Sherlock recite that countless times as he had interrogated key witnesses. Not some of his most empathetic moments. Even as a medical man John didn't like to think much about the workings of the memory. Mainly because of the uncertainty in the subject. However Sherlock rattled on about sensory, short and long term memory and then went on to insult the witness in someway. Hopefully he would have developed to be more subtle. "Anything I can 'elp with, Mr Holmes?" Toni asked hopefully, leaning closer to the edge of her seat. "I'll do whatever I can."

Sherlock signalled her over to sit within John's chair. This way he would have better access to cataloguing her body language. She obliged. "This man at the house. The laughing one. A description is required. However due to the amount of time passed and stress experienced the chances of you remembering such details are highly unlikely. Age hinders testimony and you saw him briefly. Unless you rehearsed his face within your mind with the right amount of force you will not be able to recall his features to a satisfactory level. Which hinders my next moves," Toni started at him with a little uncertainty. Sherlock looked over to John who was frowning. Somewhat disappointed with Sherlock's choice of words. "Not good?"

"No, Sherlock. Not good," John sighed again. "Basically, Toni, do you remember what the guy looked like? Mr Swallowed-A-Text-Book over there believes you may not be able to remember to his standards because of a few things."

Toni nodded, she understood before. She wasn't stupid. Despite what it looked like. She just didn't like the accusations. However she placed that to one side. "About six one, blonde. Dark blonde mind you. Nothing light. Looked sort of sandy. It was almost a buzz cut at the side. Had a fringe. He had scars near his eyebrow. Like a cat had scratched him. Thin lips. Normal nose but too thin in the face. He was tanned too. Weird thing is he wore a suit yet had boots on. Like an army guy would wear." She paused for a moment, trying to recall information. "And his eyes... his eye looked sad. Despite the laughing. They looked sad. Though I don't know if that means anything." John smirked. Turns out Toni did know after all. "That do, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded, pleasantly surprised. He held his hand out to John, "Phone."

John sighed and picked up Sherlock's phone. Slipping it into the detective's hand, he felt the warm skin brush against his and, like he was a teenage girl, his heart skipped a beat and burst into an excited flutter.

Toni shot him a questioning look, she had noticed something... He shrugged; there was nothing to be concerned about. She couldn't know.

Sherlock, oblivious as always, was texting Lestrade. Well, there was an idea. He thought about how long it had been since he had texted Lestrade properly like this. It had been quite a while, actually, going back a few months. He decided that the next time he had any spare time; he would send a message to his... Friend.

It was weird to consider Lestrade a friend but after everything the man had done to help Sherlock the title of friend was acceptable. Lestrade had always been there for him. What with managing to actually avoid detection of Mycroft Holmes whilst collecting information and contacting Sherlock. Then there were the many times he had given Sherlock the chances he needed. Looked after him. Saw him through things. Yes. In the conventional sense Lestrade was his friend. A good one by the looks of it.

Once he sent the text Sherlock looked up, smirking. "Movement will commence later today. The police are aware of the description and I have organised for my catalogue of criminals to be brought round."

"But I thought it was here in the flat?" John asked, puzzled. It wasn't like he had moved any of Sherlock's paperwork. Let alone the old book he had gathered together containing detailed profiles on criminals. Ones known and unknown to the police. Photographs included.

"It use to be until I allowed Lestrade to use it. The description is familiar however in order to clear up my hard drive," he tapped his head. "I recorded a few irrelevant subjects and deleted it from memory."

"Deleted it from memory?" Toni exclaimed. "Can he just do that?"

John nodded, leaning against the table near the window. "Apparently so with him. Least he's not gone into his little palace and in an actual talking mood today."

"And you get this daily?" She chuckled.

"I use to," John smiled before taking time to think about his words. His smile dropped slightly. "Looks like it's back again."

"John, you discussion subject choice is within the room. I believe in contents like this society classes it rude," Sherlock called backwards. His eyes closed, trying to figure out something within his head.

"And when are you one to listen to society?"

"Touché."

Toni shuffled in her seat. Feeling like she was intruding in on a conversation. She decided to remain silent until one of them asked her a question.

John suddenly realised that he knew next to nothing about the girl, and there were a few key things that needed addressing. "Toni," he began before realising that he had no idea what he was going to ask.

She lifted her eyes to his and raised her eyebrows, expecting a question any minute now.

"Is there... Anyone else that this man could use?" he asked, blurting out the question as it came to mind.

"Sorry, I don't understand..." she shook her head.

John cleared his throat and nodded, "That's alright, I didn't exactly ask very well. Is there anyone significant in your life that this gentleman can use to get your attention? Close friends, relatives, boyfriend?"

Toni blushed slightly, a rose tint to her cheeks that made her even more attractive than she was normally. "Boyfriends aren't exactly... My area of expertise. But, no. There is no one that he could use."

John pondered this for a second. If she didn't have anyone to threaten, she lived a lonely life. Sad as it was, John thought, even Sherlock had weak links in his armour; places to hit to get him to crumble. Either this girl was lying, or she really had only had her father. He smiled at her, masking the worry in his eyes. "Okay, that's great."

"Great?" She puzzled. John cursed himself, not the best phrasing he had ever used.

"I believe what John means is that it is 'great' that these men cannot anybody you care about as emotional blackmail against yourself. A low tactic which causes the person to comply with their demands," Sherlock said, unconcerned. "Low but effective. Not a nice experience. So by saying 'great' John is implying that it is good you shall not have to go through that," he paused, trying to think of the right word, "pain."

John shot Sherlock a thankful glance, although it went unnoticed. "Yes, exactly. You don't want them being able to get to you."

"Ah well no people here," she smiled sadly. "Caring about people gets you nowhere," her voiced trailed off. "Well that's what Da use to say anyway."

That reminded John of another person. Yet he wasn't going to say that in front of said person. Sherlock use to say the exact same thing however that had slowly changed. They were friends. People care about friends. John hoped that one day Toni would find somebody to be her friend. It was upsetting to see a good looking young woman like her alone and without friends. It just wasn't right, thinking that caring about people was pointless. "It's not so bad, you know."

Toni raised her eyes to his, "You think?"

"I know." John said calmly. "Having people that care for you, and people to care for, is amazing."

Sherlock grinned, listening to John talk and looking out of the window as he usually did. The smile was new, something that he had only recently started doing. John had taught him the same lesson he was now discussing with the young girl sat before him. It seemed to be a pillar of his beliefs...

But this was taking far too long. It made him ill tempered when he had to wait, and wished to spare the people around him the most of it. He drew his phone from his pocket.

**Lestrade, hurry up - SH**

Five seconds later, he got a reply.

**Here - GL**

It was good that Lestrade had started to sign his messages. It put Sherlock's mind at ease. Yes, Lestrade was a friend... One he trusted, and cared for in his own way.

There was a rapping at the door.

"John, get that. It's Lestrade." Sherlock said, not bothering to turn around. "I need that book."

John walked to the door without complaint, not even his usual grumblings. He didn't want to seem too impolite; he had to make up for Sherlock's behaviour. John pulled the door open and there stood Lestrade, a thick book under his arm.

"I have Sherlock's... Um... Book?"

"Come in, Greg," John gestured him in. "He's in his usual space. Did he tell you about Toni?"

"Yes, he did. I'm up to date with the situation," Greg replied, smiling weakly at John before finally making his way into the living room. "Sherlock, I informed Molly about the events and why you cannot attend the autopsy. I also have it here," he lifted it up. "Three matches to what you said. Bookmarked with the pink post-it notes."

Lestrade handed the book over to Sherlock who instantly handed it over to a very confused Toni. The book heavy within her hands. Resting it on her lap she stared at it or a while. It was irritating to Sherlock. "Look at the profiles Lestrade here has picked out. Familiar?"

Slowly opening the first post-it note marked page Toni scan her eyes over the picture. Taking a few moments to register the picture and reading some of the texts. John waited by the kitchen, watching the two men and Toni. Hopefully she'd be able to find him. It would be the first step to helping her that's for sure. After a short while she turned to the next page marked with pink, looked at the picture and froze. Her hands ghosted over the page. Turning to look at Sherlock she nodded, trying to control her breathing. "It's him."


	28. Chapter 28

_We're back again! Sorry we haven't updated in little over a month. The summer holidays were a busy time for the both of us. When Rayne was on holiday I was free and vice versa. We've had things to do and things to worry over etc. However we've finished chapter 28 now and I have just started chapter 29 for us so yay! We've nearly reached 30 chapters. Wow. I'll stop rambling now and let you read._

_You'll finally be able to find out who our mystery, murderous poet is! Please review if you have the time (We've nearly reached 100 reviews!) and also hello if you are newly following us!_

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><p>John watched Sherlock. Waiting to see what he would do. Greg was apparently doing the same. It was obvious how it was affecting Toni, the poor girl looked terrified. Sherlock glanced over at the page. His face void of any expression. Making it harder for John to interpret anything.<p>

The page itself had barely information on it at all. A list of names and a description. A photograph was present but it wasn't the best. Like it had been taken from with a long distance lense or a CCTV camera. "Are you positive, Toni?"

"Positive. It's him. Look at his left eyebrow, John!" She exclaimed, passing over the book for John to inspect. The man did match the description that Toni had originally given them.

Sherlock still remained silent. Obviously trying to remember the minor details about the man. "Well?" Greg asked from the corner, turning to look at John. "You ever seen him before John?"

"I don't really know to be honest." He scratched his head, passing the book over to Greg to have a look at the guy. "What about you?"

"We-"

"Oh please, John. Lestrade would have never seen this man before," Sherlock interrupted. "This man is far too intelligent to seen by a common detective inspector."

Greg frowned and crossed his arms. "Gee thanks, Sherlock. Really. I only managed to lie successfully to your damn brother and help convince him you were still dead. Nothing too big. I'm only a common detective after all." Sherlock turned to look at him. It was good to see Gregory standing up like that. He had somewhat missed the man's character. It wasn't fun not having somebody to pick pocket when they annoyed you. "Now are you going to tell us about this man or not?"

"This man," Sherlock sighed, pointing to a grainy picture in the book, "is 'dangerous and violent'."

"Not your words, I assume." Greg smiled; he had missed Sherlock and his snappy, nearly sarcastic manner. His eyes followed the thin man as he thought about everything that had happened over the last few years. Sherlock - Greg had decided many times over - was infuriating, frustrating and fascinating.

"Not at all." Sherlock shook his head. He tapped the photocopy of the handwritten report next to the picture. "His psychiatric assessment. Of course, it was ignored because he was such a good soldier."

John's head shot up. A memory stirred, half remembered; a face that he didn't clearly look at, amidst the dust and smoke. It couldn't be... He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to forget the memory. It was impossible. His fingers started tapping his knee in a rhythm, yet another habit he had picked up during his time without Sherlock.

Greg shot John a look, noticing the tapping and knowing it wasn't a good sign. He had last seen this irritation before he assaulted the Chief. John shook his head, and turned to Sherlock.

"Who... Is he?

"I believe you know him, John," Sherlock walked around. Trying to recall pieces of information as if he were actually walking around his mind palace itself. He obviously cared about his man enough to retain at least some information about him. "Well vaguely. I believe you met at most four times to your knowledge. Several to his. He's a peculiar man. I lost track of his actions a few years ago. He became boring. Dull. However it appears he has changed his tactics."

"What the hell do you mean 'changed his tactics'?" John puzzled. He was confused. He didn't remember anybody of that description. Yet there was a buzz. At the back of his mind. Quietly minding it's own business yet slowly drawing attention. "And who the hell is he?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He sneered.

Greg folded his arms and sighed. Typical Sherlock. Always assuming everybody knew exactly what he did. "No, Sherlock. It bloody well isn't," he said with a little too much force. "Now tell us."

"Don't take your lovers tiff out on me, Lestrade." Sherlock replied coolly. "He's more than likely within your files. He definitely is within the army's. An ex-soldier. One of Britain's finest blunders. Training a man of that psychological mentality to wield a gun." Sherlock chuckled, bringing his walking to a stop. Toni stared up at him in wonder. Trying to figure out how John put up with this on a daily basis. "Despite his many aliases his actual name is Sebastian."

Sebastian.

The name sent shockwaves through John's mind. Suddenly memories screamed at him. Memories he didn't want to face, didn't want to see, and didn't want to remember.

His eyes, they were full of anger and joy. His blonde hair blended with the dirt. The gun in his hand was completely still, despite spraying bullets seconds beforehand. The dust around them choked John, drowning him. The heat pressed down and swamped him. Gunfire and shouting echoed in John's ears.

He felt his mouth open, his lips moved of their own accord. A name slipped from his lips.

"Sebastian Moran."

A deathly silence settled over the room. Lestrade was waiting for Sherlock. Toni and Sherlock were waiting for John. John was trapped. Back in Afghanistan, back in uniform, back in his past. Back with Sebastian Moran.

John gripped the arms of his chair, his jaw clenched and he felt a shudder of shame claw it's way down his spine.

Sebastian... Who else could it have been? Educated and ruthless. An angel of death. But Sebastian was no angel, he was a demon.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock echoed. "A madman. No more. Descended from a good family. Rebelled," he smirked at this. As if there was something he wasn't saying. "Joined the army. That's where his true nature came out. Wasn't it, John?"

Sherlock glanced over. John's shoulders were tense, jaw clenched. Pupils dilated and hands forming into fists. Lines upon John's face told him the man was tired however the way his mouth curved showed his alertness. Yes. Sherlock was right. He always was. John eventually let out a heavy sigh, discomfort, and lent against the side of the wall. "If you can say that," John shuddered. The memories all flooding back to him. The horrid army days. The horrid meetings with the man. The recluse who caused so much havoc. To say the least.

"What exactly did he do?" Toni asked from her place in John's chair. Unsure what to make of everything.

"Went on a blasted rampage. Killed a hell of a lot of good men," John spat. "He was a violent bully. An utter psychopath. I don't know who bloody allowed him into the army but I hope to God he was sacked." Shutting his eyes John took a deep breath to calm himself down. "He weren't ever this organised. He was guns blazing. Shoot first and think later and I can guarantee you he was no bloody poet."

"He was taught, trained." Sherlock shrugged, as though the answer had been there the whole time. "I don't know who by for sure yet, but I do have my suspicions."

"Sherlock," John snapped, his fists went to his side and he stood up. His knuckles where white against his skin and his eyes were downright murderous. "Moriarty trained him. That bastard. Who else could make him gravitate towards you?"

Sherlock nodded, considering the data he had available and the several hypothesise he had to twist to the facts. "Revenge then."

"For killing his boss?" Greg asked, looking up. "Not too likely. I mean, he was just a hired gun, right... So, why would he be interested in revenge? He doesn't have the will to follow that motive."

"Unless these are his orders, and he's just following them."

"Or he cared for Moriarty." John said softly. "What if he cared for Moriarty? His actions won't be predictable. We'll need... More information on him."

"I'll run him through the database." Lestrade offered, taking one last look at the book in his hands before giving it back to Sherlock. "I'll text you when it's done and email you the information." He turned to John. "Keep your laptop on."

John smiled weakly at Greg. "Don't I always? Come on, I'll show you out."

After bidding his goodbyes to Toni and Sherlock, Greg made his way downstairs with John. John was still wary about trusting Greg again. It was fine for Sherlock. Working like this and in such a short time frame. It had been like four days since the man returned and John had had no real time to adjust to everything. He hadn't had time to heal or trust people who had hid things from him. "I know you might be busy but pub tonight?" Greg asked "You need some time to yourself or at least away from him."

"Yeah. That would be good," John trailed off.

"I need to get away from the house too. Been a tiring four days," Greg sighed. "Think we both need a break from our... well. I guess partners is the right word." John nodded as he opened the door for Greg. "I'll see you later, John."

"See you later, Greg," John smiled as he watched Greg leave before shutting the door and beginning to make his way upstairs. The smile now replaced with a frown. Of all the people Sherlock had to have after him it had to be that psycho.

John trod up the stairs, the wheels of his mind churning away. Sebastian Moran was after Sherlock Holmes, that much he knew for certain. Whether he was craving revenge or following orders... That was up for debate, and possibly the most dangerous lack of information they had. If he was looking for revenge, then it would be his stamp on the attacks, his planning and his personal brand of violence. If he was following orders, Moriarty may as well still be alive.

He pushed open the door to the flat again, Sherlock was fingering his violin. He wanted to play, to think, but it wasn't going to work with other people there.

"Toni, do you want to go grab a coffee downstairs?"

Toni smiled gratefully, "Thanks, John. I would love to."

"Call Harry. Make her drink with you." Sherlock grunted, not focused on either John or Toni but instead on the map inside his head. "Good way to meet, instead of just shoving them at each other."

"Sherloc- that's actually a good idea." John shrugged. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled the number.

"Hello John, don't ask for another favour. I already regret this one." Harry answered, sounding tired and worn out already.

"Hey, Harry... Want to come over? Coffee downstairs. I'm paying. And you'll get to meet Toni before you start living together and... Um, I miss you."

"You miss me?" She chuckled down the phone. "How sweet."

John shuffled in his spot. He had to go and admit that aloud. With Toni and Sherlock in earshot and especially to Harry. His ears turned a light shade of pink. "Yeah, I do alright. Now get your arse over here. Front and centre."

"Yes, Captain," Harry replied. Obviously trying to sound confident without bursting into a fit of giggles. "ETA as soon as I can."

"See that you follow that through. Bye, Harry." He smirked.

"Bye, John."

With that John hung up and pocketed his phone. He truly did miss his sister. Perhaps if he had spoken to her properly then they'd be on regular speaking terms but no. He had been stubborn almost. Intimidated and humiliated. Hopefully now he would be able to rebuild everything both of them had helped destroy. "She'll be here as soon as," he smiled weakly, looking at Toni. "Hopefully you'll like her. Has a brilliant sense of humour on her."

He didn't want to tell her about the rest of it. About the alcoholism. The worry and torment she had caused. Her horrid divorce and the cracked family relationship. She didn't need to know that. At all.

"Do remember the car watching your movements outside, John." Sherlock said absent-mindedly as he plucked at the strings of his violin. "It will be watching your entrance into the café as well to meet your sister. Not that they will know that of course and not that it matters. Right now the driver is occupied with the newspaper covering his face as he sleeps."

"Very good." John nodded, distracted by his thoughts. Did he just say very good? Jesus four days with Sherlock had left him with very little sleep; he wasn't himself when he was tired.

"Shouldn't we... Go? Like, now?" Toni asked, tempted to shake John to get his attention back from whatever he was dreaming about. He looked up just in time, and smiled at her before she could ask if he was okay.

"Coffee and muffins downstairs. You're not welcome, Sherlock."

"Leave already. I want to go to my mind palace." Sherlock waved his hand at the door.

John rolled his eyes at Toni, shrugged and pushed open the door. He held it open as Toni walked through and she smiled politely at him.

She knew he was thinking about something that worried him; he could see it in her eyes. He'd learnt to see that look no matter what face it hid behind while Sherlock had been gone.

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><p><em>Before you go, I've been thinking. This really needs a cover or something for the story. You guys must get fed up of seeing my ugly mug at the top of the page. xD So does anybody have any suggestions?<em>


	29. Chapter 29

Waiting downstairs for Harry to arrive was slightly more nerving than John had thought it would be. Whilst being painfully aware they were being watched there was the mixture of worry, waiting for Harry to arrive, and anticipation that the two would at least like each other. If anything John was thankful that he had some time away from Sherlock. He loved the man but he couldn't half be an irritating prick when he wanted to be. With everything going on John needed a break. It was like a week of cases piled up into one and, quite frankly, he was having trouble adjusting back to normal. Whatever normal was any more.

Speedy's was surprisingly quiet, Toni and John being the only ones inside. John had already ordered their drinks and had purchased Toni a muffin. Small talk was exchanged as a way of passing the time. John managed to find out that Toni had lived in London her entire life. Her mother died when she was only five which meant her father had raised her; which explained why she had turned out like she did. She could pick a lock in under a minute and she had an odd liking for Queen. Then again, John thought, who doesn't like Bohemian Rhapsody?

By the time John was halfway through a story about his childhood, involving Harry and a very wet hat, the distant sound of the door opening echoed through the café. Looking up John could see the familiar dirty blonde hair and the wide grin that he use to see a lot in his younger years. Harry had arrived.

Toni noticed John shifting in his seat and looked up. There was a woman who looked a lot like John, but she didn't seem to have the worn out expression he wore.

She was pretty, rather petite and had a beautiful smile. Those were the things Toni noticed first.

"Hello, brother of mine." She laughed, squeezing in next to him.

"Harry." He smiled, his eyes brightening somewhat. He gestured across the table to Toni. "Toni, Harry. Harry, Toni."

Harry's eyes swept over Toni's face. A sigh escaped her lips. Toni flushed a bright pink; had she done something wrong?

"You can never avoid helping the pretty ones, can you John?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. She turned back to Toni. "Even as a kid, he had a weakness for the pretty ones."

Toni laughed, shocked that Harry thought she was pretty, relieved that she wasn't angry and flattered by Harry's comments. "So, Sherlock's a pretty one then?"

"You've seen the man, ain't you? Looks like he walked out of one of those stupid fashion shows." Harry smiled at Toni. At least she seemed funny then. "You really aren't that subtle, John."

John huffed, sitting back in his seat, hoping that the waitress would bring their drinks as a distraction. But of course he had asked for them when Harry arrived and they had only just started making them. "I do not have a weakness for the pretty ones and I'm very subtle thank you very much."

Harry gave him that look which asked him if he was really sure about that and he could practically hear her sarcastically asking him too. Looking at the two of them Toni chuckled. She gathered this was what normal families were like but she hadn't really seen it until now. It was comforting. Breaking a bit of her muffin off Toni popped it in her mouth, continuing to watch the silent conversation being had. It was almost a shock when Harry's words brought her back into reality. "I'm somewhat pleased you turned up at my brother's, Toni, not because of the situation but because this idiot hadn't rung me once in three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Frowned Toni, looking over at John.

"And you would have thought when the love of his life turns up after three fucking years he'd tell his sister," Harry sighed, rolling her eyes. "But nope. I heard it off the freaking telly."

John sat uncomfortably in his chair. It wasn't like he could deny it. He had been avoiding her recently. "The past few days have been absolutely crazy and he isn't the love of my life." Those sort of things had to be mutual, he added to himself.

Harry snorted, rolling her eyes. "Whatever you say."

"Really," John mumbled, "he's not the love of my life. He's not... Sherlock doesn't... Doesn't do emotions. And I'm not in love with him!"

"I think the lady doth protest too much." Toni smiled sweetly.

Harry burst into noisy laughter and her blonde hair fell into her eyes in a way that John knew she hated. She swept it back and focused on Toni. John suddenly felt like a third wheel. "What about you then?"

"Me?" Toni asked, pulling her muffin to bits with her delicate hands. "There's no love of my life... I met a girl once, but it didn't work out." She smiled, but John could see a sadness in her eyes that reminded him of everything he felt about Sherlock. Heartbreak, not as rare as you might think.

Harry seemed to be silently kicking herself. "I'm sorry, but that's her loss." She said weakly, not really sure what else to say.

"You?" Toni asked, her eyes not quite meeting Harry's. "Anyone special?"

Harry scratched her neck. "Well, unlike my dearest - and only - brother, I got married. But, it didn't work out and she left me. Sometimes I think I too should fall in love with a mental detective. Might save me some hassle."

John glared at her for a second, but shrugged. "Not really saving anyone hassle. It's just... Well, dangerous and it's a bloody rollercoaster."

"So you do love him then!" Toni smirked. "You pretty much just said so yourself!"

"You know what, he did! Busted, Johnny boy," Harry chuckled, reaching over to nudge John. "There's no point denying it now."

John sighed, there would be no winning with Harry and Toni seemed to be encouraging her. True he was lying to them but that wasn't the point. The point was he wasn't going to admit it straight out because knowing Harry she'd march straight upstairs, call Sherlock the stupid names she use to and tell him everything. After which she'd probably demand he do something about it and it made him shudder to think about the possibilities. "I'm not in love with him. Can we please talk about something else?"

Rolling her eyes Harry turned to Toni. "So whilst John sits there in denial, thinking we girls can't tell he's got a case of puppy love, how about you and I talk a bit more? Get an idea of living arrangements and stuff."

"Yeah, that will be good." Deciding not to bother any more John stood up, went to the counter and collected the coffees himself. Saving the waitress the bother of bringing them over. When he returned they were already well into a conversation. "Oh you don't snore do you?"

"Oh God no and if I ever do feel free to come in and throw something at my head. Preferably not too hard." Harry winked, picking up her coffee and taking a sip. "Thanks, John. Hey, you aren't one of those vegetarians are you? It's no bother just I cook a bit of meat and all."

"No," Toni replied as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, "I couldn't live without bacon."

"I love bacon!" Harry slammed the table, then realised what she had done and looked around. Luckily, there was only an empty room.

Toni looked like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming train for a second. Harry seemed to realise what she had done.

"I'm so sorry." Harry apologised, "I do tend to get carried away."

"I'll note it." Toni smiled as she took her coffee from John. "I tend not to talk for days, I sort of... Daydream."

"That's fine." Harry sipped her coffee. "Oh, needs more sugar."

Toni pushed the pot with the sugar in over with her elbow. "You have a sweet tooth then?"

"I love sweet things." Harry ripped open three packets of sugar and poured them in, mixing the concoction with her finger. "It's a weakness."

"After all," John quoted to no one in particular, "potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Harry waved John off before taking another sip of her coffee. "Perfect."

"I guess this means there will always be sweet things around the place then?" Toni asked, her lips turned up into a smirk.

"Of course," Harry replied. John shuffled in his seat before picking up his mug. He was definitely feeling like the third wheel now. Taking a sip of his coffee he let the girls get on with it. He would have left them and gone back upstairs but he wasn't prepared to face Sherlock again. Not yet. "Is there anything in particular you like that you'd like me to get me?"

"No, I'm pretty good with whatever people give me. Normally use to having to go without anything for a bit so you get use to it," she shrugged. Toni was glad of that actually. It meant she had been able to adapt. "Though I have one request I guess."

Harry nodded, sitting back in her seat. "Sure, what is it?"

"I want to make you my special spaghetti and meatballs," Toni blushed, looking down at her hands. "As a sort of thank you for having me. John and Sherlock can come if they like. I need to thank them too. Otherwise I'd sort of be out on the street bleeding."

Reaching over the table Harry placed her hand on top of Toni's. "Sure. That will be nice. I'll invite them but I don't know if they'll turn up."

"If you invite us, and we aren't running around getting shot at, then of course we'll come," John said, shaking his head. "Though I can't guarantee Sherlock will eat anything or not complain."

Toni smiled politely at John, wanting to avoid the question that sprang immediately to mind. "'M sure that won't be a problem."

Harry sniggered at the thought of Sherlock wandering around her apartment, completely lost and unsure what a dinner party actually was; the great man was even confused by deerstalkers and the earth rotating the sun. "It might," she looked up, "be something we all enjoy."

John raised an eyebrow at his sister as he took a long draw from his mug. She shrugged, a secret playing at her lips. Oh god, the voice that alerted him to danger mode, she has a plan.

John rushed to check his watch before she could say anything more. It was a good a time as any to take his leave.

"Excuse me," he said rather pointedly ignoring Harry's attempts at eye contact, "I have to go. Sherlock and the... Uh, police await."

"Yes, I'm well aware, John," Harry rolled her eyes. "I'll make sure I take Toni back into Baker Street after we're done here. I'm assuming you want her there before you bring her to mine?"

Nodding John stood up. "Yeah, do that. Just don't go anywhere else. People, you know? Everything's paid for by the way. My treat. I'll see you later." Tucking in his chair John began to walk towards the door. As he put his hands in his pocket he felt his fingers brush against his wallet. Turning back he made his way to the table and withdrew his wallet before taking out his Lloyds TSB card and practically throwing it onto the table. "I forgot to give you that, Toni. In case you need anything. Like you want to buy ingredients to make Harry a meal or a present or clothes or something. Harry knows the code; she'll give it to you. Take as much as you like. I don't touch that card anyway."

Flashing the girls a quick smile John made his way out of the café, swearing he heard a conversation about them having to clothes shop as he left. Which he gathered was justifiable. She had come to Baker Street with only the things on her back. She needed more clothing. It wasn't like he'd miss the money anyway. It wasn't his, in his mind. It was pity money. A gift from Mycroft for no reason at all. Though John knew what it was. It was Mycroft's way of trying to eradicate the guilt he felt. Hence why John had refused to take it.

Climbing the stairs was difficult. His feet weighed him down, dreading the assent. He wanted to leave Harry and Toni to talk but he also wanted a break from Sherlock to process everything. Yet he couldn't leave Baker Street. Facing Sherlock seemed like the easiest thing to do. Considering he would probably be ignored and the only thing he would have to deal with would be the pang of desperation in the pit of his stomach.

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><p><strong>Sorry it took a while, Guys. We've been so so busy. Start of school and other stuff.<strong>


	30. Chapter 30

_First off - I apologise profusely for not updating this in awhile. The fault lies entirely with me. Though we both have been extremely busy._

_Secondly - This fic is now over a year old! Jesus. I don't think we intended to go on for this long._

_Thirdly - Enjoy._

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><p>Upon entering the flat his existence was pretty much ignored. Sherlock was exactly where he had left him, deep inside his mind palace no doubt. Though thinking about what this time John didn't have the foggiest. Thinking it was best to leave him to it John picked up his laptop and made his way to his room. If he was needed then Sherlock would figure out where to find him. He had his phone on him anyway.<p>

The flight of stairs leading to his room were easier to climb that the ones up to the flat. Though he still had that horrid feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hated to be ignored, even if he did understand the reason why, by Sherlock. He still felt like they needed to talk about everything considering the amount of time they had had to themselves since the entire fiasco of Sherlock's return had occurred. Was it really too much to ask for a single night to themselves just to talk about everything? Even if Sherlock did find it tedious he should understand it was what John needed. It would probably make him feel worse afterwards. Being allowed to have a conversation, to get use to everything, would most likely bring him false hope and he couldn't let his stupid feelings get the better of him. Not when it concerned Sherlock. He didn't want to ruin their friendship.

Typing away on his laptop John wrote the things he felt like he couldn't say. The private section of his blog was slowly gathering posts, much more than his normal blog that the public got to see. Though if they managed to get hold of the things in his private one then they'd more than likely have a field day. That or pity him and if there was one thing he didn't need it was their pity. John's mobile gave a buzz, taking him away from him train of thought before he went to check it.

**Transportation will arrive by 15:00. Everything is in place. Be ready. Precautions are being made to stop anybody following you all. -MH**

Rolling his eyes John clicked the save button on his post before closing the laptop. It was twelve now. Meaning it had been two hours since Mycroft arrived and left. Hadn't taken him long at all. It was best to go and inform Sherlock of the details.

Heaving himself up John began to make his way towards the door and back downstairs. Sherlock was still exactly where he had left him. John had to hand it to the man that when he wanted to actually stay still he definitely did. Choosing to sit down in his chair he waited until he was comfortable before saying anything to Sherlock. Tearing him away from his mind palace hadn't always been a pleasant experience in the past; it often left him faced with a grouchy man who was determined to act like a five year old.

Whenever John was allowed to watch Sherlock think he always tried to attempt to memorise the moments. Sherlock, once deep inside his mind palace, relaxed. His facial features became somewhat soft and the posture, he had obviously spent ages perfecting, seemed to slouch slightly. It was as if he was somewhat at peace inside of whatever his palace looked like. John wished he could at least catch a glimpse of what it would look like. Even if just for one simple moment. He knew he wouldn't ever be able to, and that was okay as long as he got to see Sherlock in his relaxed state. It was as if all the barriers he had put up were weakened for one second and he was vulnerable. Sherlock would deny it until the cows came home, John mused but he knew Sherlock a bit better than he knew himself at times. Sherlock couldn't fool him. Not any more.

Finally realising he couldn't continue to stare at Sherlock any longer John cleared his throat, hoping that would gain Sherlock's attention. As usual it did not. Sighing John leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms upon his knees. "Sherlock."

It did not work. John really didn't want to do the next thing but he knew it would be the only thing that would work. Picking himself out of his chair he walked over to Sherlock and leaned in close to the man's ear. He couldn't resist inhaling as he did so, the familiar smell of lavender and honey wafting into his nostrils. He hated how the smell caressed him, making him itch for more. He couldn't have more, he knew that. He had to stop himself from doing anything to Sherlock he would definitely later regret. One more sniff was not worth ruining his friendship with Sherlock, no matter how bloody good the man smelt. Kicking himself mentally he remembered how close he was to Sherlock's head and whispered quietly. "Norbury."

As soon as he said it Sherlock turned his gaze to him immediately, causing John to step back so it wouldn't seem too awkward for him to be that close. Trust that to be the one thing that bloody worked, he thought bitterly.

"Yes, John?"

"Mycroft text me," he replied. Why text he didn't know, though no doubt Sherlock would have figured that out by now. "He's sorted everything out for three."

"Everything for three?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I had hoped for earlier, but I shall... I can put the extra time to use."

"To use?" John cocked his head and leaned against the desk. He looked over the detective's face, now guarded and careful. His lips were no longer slightly parted, which John missed. Sherlock's lips were exquisite.

Sherlock rolled out of the seat and with one fluid movement crossed the room. He seemed to have ignored John's question, which was rather frustrating.

John followed Sherlock, feeling his leg twinge as he put too much pressure on it. The detective may be back, but not everything had healed. He had not had time to heal.

Sherlock darted down the stairs and out of the front door. Once John had reached him, he had already hailed a taxi and was just about to climb in.

"Hurry, John." He smiled, "Molly will be pleased to see us."

John climbed into the taxi on the other side of Sherlock and looked out of the window as they sped through London.

Sherlock opened the door as the cab slowed by the side of the hospital. John winced, he hated this place still.

"Why are we here?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked, "I need to test a theory."

"A theory?" Frowned John, Sherlock had had all morning to test out his blasted theories. Heck he could have done them at home as they waited for Mycroft to come and pick up Toni but no. He wasn't even sure why he had to go with him to test out this bloody theory. It wasn't like he did before. At least he couldn't set the kitchen table on fire again.

Instead of replying to him Sherlock headed into the hospital, taking the familiar route towards the lab; John followed after him, reluctant to break the silence again. In a way it was better than the talking, easier for him to think. The talking reminded him of everything that wasn't right between them currently, how they had hardly had time to smooth over the wounds before everything started up again. If only it had started with a simple case but no, it had to be one that triggered off the psychopath that was Sebastian Moran. Plus they had already had the fire department to the flat. As soon as Toni was safely secured at Harry's he was calling Gregory and going out to the pub for a much needed drink.

When they entered the lab John say Molly sitting at one of the work stations, numerous petri dishes out for her inspected. He swore he saw her hide her mobile; clearly the boyfriend again. "Hello Molly," he smiled faintly, going over to lean against one of the side counters. "Sorry to intrude again."

"Hello John. Sherlock," she beamed, placing her petri dish to one side. "You aren't intruding at all. Actually I had been expecting you." Looking down at her wrist she frowned slightly. "Though I had expected you slightly later than this, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled at her, a gesture that would have been sweet had it not been from him. "Sorry about that, but an idea just occurred to me."

Molly nodded and pulled a clipboard over to her. She scanned it, running her freshly painted, baby blue nails over the paper as she counted down. "Here. Mr Ja- Ju- um... Number 58. He was meant to be used for a teach, but that got postponed and we can't keep him. Do you want me to... Fetch him?"

Sherlock nodded. Molly got up and darted from the room, pulling her phone from her pocket as she did so. John had noticed a slight smudge to her pink lipstick; the boyfriend had been here recently.

Sherlock turned to John and looked him over. "When was the last time you shaved?"

John raised a hand to his stubble covered chin and realised what Sherlock was talking about. His beard was growing, looking less like stubble and more like an actual beard. "Can't you tell me?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Of course I can. Six days ago, at seven in the morning." Sherlock said sharply. "I just thought it'd be politer to ask."

"Not like you," John scoffed to himself. From the look Sherlock gave him he had clearly heard but, for once, was making the wise decision by not commenting on it. "I just haven't had time recently. What with everything going on."

"You have had plenty of time. In the past few days there has been numerous occasions w-"

"Well maybe it hasn't been my top priority. It's just a beard, Sherlock. I'll shave it off tomorrow." Taking a deep breath John tried to calm down. He was getting unnecessarily angry and he knew that. Sherlock was just not making it easy. So he hadn't shaved in a while. In the last three years there had been times he didn't shave for weeks. Not that he hadn't wanted to, his soldier instincts screaming at him to pull himself together. Life went on but if he forgot to shave it didn't matter. He was allowed that at least. "Why are we here anyway? You said you had a theory."

Nodding Sherlock walked over to one of the cabinets and began to search through it. "If I am correct, and I am certain I will be, then we shall be back in time to accompany Toni and your sister back to Harry's. Mycroft's safety procedures, though handy, are insufferable."

John nodded, remembering his own meetings with that man, ones that he wished had been a lot shorter and a lot less frequent. Something about him had reminded him of a twisted Sherlock, and John had often shied away from the man's presence during the absence of the younger Holmes brother. "Okay."

"I must say, John." Sherlock muttered while placing various coloured liquids and powders on the desk in front of him, "you have been seriously overworked these last few days... Perhaps, I should allow you some time alone."

John watched Sherlock's careful face, a mask behind which the monumental intellect hid. John felt a lump in his throat rise, he hadn't meant to upset Sherlock and he hadn't meant to snap. But, Sherlock had offered him some time out, maybe the pint with Greg wasn't such a farfetched idea. "I, I'll call Greg later, see if he wants to go out."

Sherlock's mask slipped for a second and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Greg will be pleased; he still thinks you haven't forgiven him."

"I have." John said quietly, watching Sherlock take a seat and mix various amounts of one thing and another. John always thought of this bit as the most... Intimate time to be around Sherlock, his mask fell and his frustration and joy shone through as he experimented. He thought that was probably why he'd allowed Sherlock to do so many balmy experiments at home.

"Ah." Sherlock mumbled, peering down at what seemed to be some sort of muddy slime.

The muddy slime thing looked disgusting and even if John couldn't figure out what the hell it was meant to do to the cadaver Molly would wheel in soon he was sure it make sense to Sherlock somehow. Stealing a glance at his watch he realised it was only half past twelve. Hopefully they would get home for one. He could make some lunch for himself and the girls; he could even try and get Sherlock to eat though he didn't have any hopes for that. John pulled out his phone as Sherlock began to look around the lab again.

**Do you and Toni want to have lunch upstairs with me when I get back? – JW**

**Sure. Though there isn't anything in your fridge. – HW**

**I'll go to ASDA or something on the way back. – JW**

**Alrighty, Johnny boy. Don't let your boyfriend keep you there too long. – HW**

Rolling his eyes John wanted to text back that Sherlock wasn't actually his boyfriend but there really wasn't any point. She wouldn't listen to him anyway. The doors to the lab opened, pulling John from his thoughts, and revealed Molly pushing in the cadaver number 58. The man had obviously been in his late forties and was partial to eating. From what John could see he also liked to take care of his nail; not that that made any difference now, considering Sherlock was going to be smothering him in goo or something.

"Ah thank you, Molly!" Sherlock beamed, his head turning to her general direction. Walking over to cadaver Sherlock unscrewed the lid on the jar and poured the slimy substance onto number 58's chest. After staring at it for a while Sherlock stood up straight, placing his hands behind his back. "If you could, Molly, monitor the body over the course of the next five hours until you leave work. Text me with hourly updates and in the morning report back to me again."

"Okay, Sherlock," Molly smiled, jotting down notes on a clipboard. "Will that be everything?"

"Yes, I believe so." Sherlock made his way toward the door making John follow suit.

"Goodbye, Molly," John said, stopping slightly to talk to her. "Have fun on your date tonight."

Her eyes going wider Molly stared at John for a second before allowing her smile to creep back onto her face. "I will, John, thanks. Goodbye."

Hurrying back after Sherlock they walked together in silence until they were finally situated in a taxi. Though instead of ordering it to return to back to Baker Street John asked it to take them to the shop nearest to them, much to Sherlock's annoyance. The resulting argument ending in John agreeing to allow Sherlock to experiment on the kitchen table when they got back later that evening. John was almost regretting bringing Sherlock along with shopping though. The man was rambling on about brands and 'unnecessary' food items John had put in the basket.

Peace only returned when they reached the check out. "John, how did you know Molly had a date tonight?"

"She had painted her nails recently," John said absently as he scanned a loaf of bread. As much as he loathed the self-checkout it was quicker. "Plus the calendar on her calendar said she had a hair appointment after work. Why else would she be getting her hair done so late if she didn't have a date?"

Humming in agreement Sherlock attempting to repack the items for the fifth time. "You have improved."

On the way home John managed to get Sherlock to carry one of the bags somehow. They still had two hours until Mycroft's team arrived for Toni but at least they could have something to eat before then.


	31. Chapter 31

_Sorry we haven't updated for a while, we have been extremely busy with exams and life and you know how it is! I hope. We also have got a better method to write this thing with now so hopefully we'll be able to do it quicker than it took this one._

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><p>John had decided, to appease his sister and her odd health food fascination, a light summer pasta salad would be perfect for lunch. He'd learnt the recipe from watching her make it over and over in the time she'd spent kipping on his couch. Tomato sauce poured over a bowl of pasta, olives and cheese to be added to taste.<p>

"John," Harry said with her fork half raised to her lips, "you're more observant than I thought... You didn't google this did you?"

John shook his head and pushed his bowl away from him. He peered over the girl's shoulders at Sherlock, who was playing his violin like there was no tomorrow. Sherlock was playing something he recognised, yet something John was sure he had never heard before. "No, I didn't. I actually watched you make it, and then tried myself."

"You're a good cook." Harry admitted, a small smile flicking across her face. "Sadly your boyfriend doesn't eat."

"No-" John sighed and gave his sister a scathing look. "Shut up."

Harry laughed and covered her mouth, pasta nearly flying everywhere. Toni giggled at them, then leaned back in her chair. "You sister's right, y'know... You're really good."

John looked down at the table. "Thank you."

Taking in the view in Toni smiled. It was refreshing to see sibling banter seeing as she rarely ever got to see it. Being an only sibling meant she was lacking in that experience, it was just nice to see a normal kind of family. Even if they were far from it, she didn't know, it was still better than having a thug of a father. She could still see the strain there, it was clear when John had first seen Harry but it was clearly improving. "So why doesn't he eat then?"

"Sherlock?" John chuckled to himself, his gaze still fixed to the table. "The digestion slows down his thinking capacity, takes the energy away from his brain." John looked back over towards the man in the window, still engrossed in his playing. "Despite the fact I have repeatedly told him that the food he is meant to eat gives him the energy he needs for his brain to function. You would think as a scientist he would understand that. Then again he just gives me a rant about why that isn't necessarily true. I gave up trying long ago."

"Y'know, John," Toni said whilst stabbing a piece of pasta, "that sounds like something a boyfriend would say."

John rolled his eyes, trying hard not to let anyone see the way that comment made his heart skip a beat. The fact that everyone else thought he and Sherlock were dating was far too much to deal with. He thought he was over it, but obviously not.

Toni and Harry were giggling to each other about something that John missed completely; not quite sure what it was that set them off he waited politely for them to finish. Something told him that they'd be fine living with each other. Harry nudged Toni with her foot and they both burst into laughter again. Dear God, they were like children.

"Excuse me?" John raised his eyebrows at his sister. She diverted her eyes and pinched her lips together, trying hard not to laugh. John sighed and wiped his hand over his mouth. "Seriously, Harry. You'd think-"

He was cut off by Sherlock suddenly diving into the room. "John, you'll have to excuse me but I must leave. Molly has just texted me some rather brilliant news."

"I, uh, do you want me to come?"

Sherlock looked at both women and shook his head. He blatantly ignored Harry's gaze and barely passed his eyes over Toni. He looked John straight in the eyes and with a small, strained smile said, "No, you stay here."

"Oh," John looked back down at his plate again, the rest of his appetite disappearing. Sherlock was allowed to go off on his own; after all they used to do it all the time in the past. He could definitely do it now if he wanted. John just had to stop being so irrational. "Alright then, just get back for three," he met Sherlock's eyes and any anger he had in him disappeared. God he had a sickness. "I am not handling your arse of a brother alone, you got that?"

A wide grin spread across Sherlock's face before he rushed to get his coat, a few seconds later the door to the flat slammed shut leaving an eerie silence in the kitchen. John tried to avoid his sister's gaze, Toni's he could handle but Harry's? He wasn't a saint after all. Sighing he leaned back in his chair and became suddenly interested in the scrawled notes on the kitchen fridge.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There is nothing to talk about, Harry."

Toni and Harry shared a look with one another before Harry sighed and placed a hand cautiously on John's arms. Christ she really didn't know when to take a hint, he didn't want to talk about it so they weren't going to. Sure, John knew what the freaking issue was, it was plain obvious, doesn't mean he wanted to admit it aloud. It was his stupid trust issues getting the best of him again. Sherlock was his own person, he wasn't joined at John's hip and John's feelings wouldn't have stopped Sherlock going to the hospital again so he just had to get over it and wait for three o'clock.

The time passed quickly, and soon John was stacking the small dishwasher with empty plates and cups. Toni and Harry were contented to be perched around the dining table, muttering between themselves and giggling occasionally. John just let the noise wash over him, but he didn't bother to listen to them or join in. It was nice to just hear people talking, especially after Sherlock's prolonged silences.

"Does anyone want dessert? I got some of that chocolate vendetta stuff." He asked, already opening the freezer. Harry's eyes turned to saucers and she nodded enthusiastically.

Toni turned to look at him. "Chocolate vendetta?"

John smiled at her, "Chocolate Viennetta. Harry doesn't call anything the right name. You'll get used to it."

She smothered a laugh and nodded. "Yeah, sure. Sounds great."

"It'll be three soon." Harry called as she checked her watch. "Better hurry up with the ice cream, or we might not get time to eat it."

"I'll get right on it." John rolled his eyes. He adored his sister, but she was a right pain in the ass.

Taking three bowls out of the cupboard John got to preparing the ladyships their desserts whilst making sure to give his sister an extra portion. Honestly he wished Toni all the luck in the world because to say Harry had a sweet tooth was quite a bit of an understatement; John had once stayed an entire week and didn't remember seeing a single vegetable in sight and a lot of chocolate. As he placed the bowls on the table he watched Harry's eyes glisten, God she was just a giant kid.

"Thank you, John," Toni smiled, digging into her dessert. She didn't want to leave the cosy little flat with the welcoming people she had just meant. They were the nicest people she had ever met, which kind of said a lot about her, and sure she was going to stay with Harry but three o'clock was drawing nearer and that didn't settle her very well.

"No problem." John smiled, taking a rather gentle nibble at his own desert. He was starting to get a little chubby and had decided that he was definitely not going to find a girlfriend without monitoring his eating habits. Sometimes though, after a successful case, he and Sherlock would splurge on some fancy food and John would throw all his rules out of the window. Or at least, they used to.

"So, got any bad habits I need to be warned about?" Harry asked, almost without looking up from her food. "John told me about Sherlock's bad habits and I really don't feel like we'd get along if you were as bad as him."

Toni laughed, swallowing a mouthful of dessert. "No, I'm... Um, I have no habits? Not even good ones."

"Blank slate, eh?" Toni's eyes glinted, her smile turning her mouth up at the edges, "I can mould you into whatever I want?"

"Yeah," the younger woman nodded, a light blush coming to her cheeks, "you can."

John sighed heavily. "You two, seriously." He sat back in his chair having finished his meal. He waved his hand in the air, trying to get his point across. "You're both..."

"Yeah, I know." Harry smirked.

John rolled his eyes and watched the girls smirk viciously at one another across the table, God he wished Sherlock would turn up soon and save him from enduring those two any longer. They were just trying to wind him up now, surely.

Salvation, he thought came in the form of the knock at the door but his hope was short lived. Instead of salvation he was faced with the horrifying reality that Mycroft had arrived early; he should have known that the Holmes boys never follow schedules whether that meant being between two days early or perhaps, at the most, four months late. Lack of exposure had sort of put a damper on his memory. "Ah Mycroft, we weren't expecting you until three." John ran his hand across the back of his neck, he never liked meeting Mycroft. Especially without the company of Sherlock. "Erm come on in, we're just waiting for your brother to stop ogling a corpse. I'll make you a cup of tea if you like?"

"No, thank you, John," Mycroft replied, his lips pressing into a thin lined smile too uncomfortable looking to be genuine. "I doubt you keep my particular blend." Striding over to sit in John's chair Mycroft played with the handle of his umbrella ignoring the rest of the household, waiting to address them when the time became necessary. "My brother will be here momentarily. My secretary tells me he left Saint Bartholomew's roughly two and a half minutes ago."

Nodding John sent a strained look, that was meant to be an apology, into the kitchen towards the girls. Harry had heard him complain about the elder Holmes before and Toni had only met him the once and even then it wasn't the warmest of introductions. This was going to go swimmingly. "Right, okay then."

They were both peering at the older Holmes brother, and John could read in their faces that they were both not quite expecting this. Even Toni seemed to be a little more shocked this time around. Harry nodded at him, "That's Sherlock's brother?"

"They aren't that much alike." John muttered, keeping his voice down. If he was anything like Sherlock, Mycroft had bat hearing.

Harry rolled her eyes and stood up. "Seems like they've got the same social skills." Toni half smothered a giggle, but turned it into a cough at the last moment. Harry grinned at her, but Toni clenched her eyes shut and tried to breathe. The second her eyes were open, Harry pulled a face. The girls burst into a fit of muffled half laughter, which only intensified when they made eye contact. John remembered doing something similar with his sister at their grandparents once or twice.

Instead of saying anything, he collected the dishes and put them into the sink to be washed later. Harry and Toni had calmed down, but were still grinning like utter fools as John guided them into the living room. Each took a chair and muttered their greetings to Mycroft. John truly felt like he was some kind of childminder, but he was just being a big brother he guessed.

The door clicked open and Sherlock strode in, unwinding his scarf from his neck. "Hello Mycroft, leave as soon as you can. John, I have something to show you."

Harry muttered something along the lines of 'I bet you do' before Toni kicked her and Mycroft's ever disapproving stare bore into her. John could feel the snide comments from Mycroft that must have been piling up inside his mind, and so did Sherlock.

"Aren't you leaving yet?"

"No, Sherlock, I am not." Mycroft let every word leave his mouth shaped perfectly and razor sharp.

The detective took his coat off and snapped at his brother. "If you want some of John's dessert, all you have to do is ask."

"Very assuming," Mycroft replied, rolling the handle of his umbrella around in his palm. "In case you have forgotten you made a prior commitment to Miss DiMaro and you know how incredibly rude it is to withdraw one's promise like that."

From her seat in the corner Toni stiffened upon hearing the name she had long stopped using. She hadn't told John or Sherlock her name, she definitely hadn't told Mycroft the last time he visited either; the familiar syllables echoing in her head. "Excuse me," she interrupted, Sherlock was barely halfway through a sentence before she decided to do so, the anger inside her building at an alarming rate. She didn't mean to interrupt Sherlock but she hadn't even notice him beginning to talk and frankly right now she didn't give a flying rat's arse that she had. "How the hell do you know that name?"

"Is there any reason I should not?" Mycroft turned to face Toni, raising his eyebrow at her as he spoke.

"No, do not try and wiggle yourself out of this, Mr Holmes, by answering me with another question." Toni struggled to remain in her seat, her anger was trying to get the better of her but she wouldn't let it. If that smug bastard could utter her last name as if it was common knowledge to everybody and their dogs then she could stop herself from doing something stupid. "Considering you obtained information about myself, without so much as asking me beforehand, I would like to know why the bloody hell you know my last name? I know you are helping me, and that is appreciate, but isn't it common courtesy to ask permission nowadays to private information or are we all just allowed to go prying where our noses aren't wanted?"

Somewhere in the flat Sherlock was trying to suppress a grin and John was muttering about how there was another one but none of that mattered as Toni continued to stare at Mycroft, demanding silently that he answered her question. It wasn't right, him knowing her name, okay it would be out there on public record but considering the man only had a first name and a face to work with Toni just didn't feel right. "Your name, Miss DiMaro, is on public record. As I assume you are fully aware, it wasn't exactly hard to match the fingerprints of your father to the ones we already had on file. When I am expected to provide protection, I expect to know whom I am protecting." Reaching into his waistcoat pocket Mycroft pulled out his watch and inspected the time, not drawing his eyes away from the face. "Besides, do you really believe that I would allow you to associate with my brother without a formal background check and assessment of your character? It would be preposterous to believe you would have managed to remain in my brother's company without such procedures taking place already, Miss DiMaro. When my brother is concerned you can never be too careful."

Toni had to admit she was slightly impressed with the elder Holmes, he genuinely appeared to show concern for his brother and was prepared to insure his safety. Still, what he had done was wrong and Toni wasn't going to stand for it. "Mr Holmes, that doesn't change the fact you still performed a background check upon me without my consent and thought it appropriate to use my name as if I had shared it willingly with you."

"I apologise, Miss DiMaro, but my actions are justified. As I am sure you are aware considering the work of similar nature you performed for your father in the past"

"That is beside the point, Mr Holmes. Though at least we appear to have some sort of understanding." Toni nodded slightly and turned to look elsewhere in the room, not wishing to look at anybody else in the room right now. Whether it was out of embarrassment or frustration she wasn't quite sure.

Sherlock however wasn't exactly done with the conversation, "I can judge a person's character alone, Mycroft, without you bothering to push your nose in whe-"

"Do be quiet, Sherlock. You are only helping increase poor John's oncoming headache." Almost immediately Sherlock's lips pressed tightly together, the sooner the conversation ended the sooner everything was sorted out and the fat oaf was gone. That way he could show John what he had intended to and he wouldn't be cursed with his insufferable brother's presence.


End file.
